Fashion police air age-old warnings


Giving new merit to the term “fashion police,” baggy pants that show boxer shorts or thong underwear would be illegal under a proposed amendment to Atlanta’s indecency laws.
The amendment, sponsored by city councilman C.T. Martin, states sagging pants are an “epidemic” that is becoming a major concern around the country.
While I generally like to save the term “epidemic” for truly frightening phenomena such as the avian bird flu, ebola, or a shortage of my favorite flavor of Ben & Jerry’s (Phis Food – sublime!), I do find the sagging britches trend to be ridiculous and laughable, especially when accompanied by a hard stare.
Young men slouch around with their underwear hanging out and then dare you to give them a second glance. As if saying, “Yeah, I’m a fashion victim, you got a problem with that?”
Hip. Obviously, I just don’t know what’s “hip” anymore, as evidenced by my dismay at seeing that particular body part exposed. I’ve started to channel my inner Joan Rivers because when I see an old-enough-to-know-better woman in a short skirt, barely-there halter or, saints forbid, tube top and high heels, I say not “how vogue” but, rather, “She looks like streetwalker!”
Clearly, I’m so far out of the game that being a fashion victim would be a step up.
Frozen fashion. Fashion gurus are full of cautionary tales of older, once stylish, women who cling to the dated fashions and hairstyles that were popular at the height of their beauty. Think beehive hairdos or parachute pants here. Now shudder and clear your mind.
There is nothing positive about people frozen – fashion-wise if not cryogenically – in the period in which they looked the best. There is nothing worse than a “mature woman” still sporting the bangles, beads, and mini-skirts of her high school days (although, to be fair, I think every single one of those fashions is BACK).
Nonetheless, it’s so tricky to know where “trendy” and “tacky” collide when low rise pants, gypsy tops, and short skirts hold on like the vampires of fashion that Will Not Die.
Fashion magazines are of little assistance since, for the most part, what is in fashion is to be stunningly beautiful, anorexic and not a day over 17.
Sure that look works for SOME people. I flirt with fashion disaster via my few trendy T-shirts for casual days. In fact, I once complimented my 16-year-old niece on her “AC DC” tee only to have her respond, incredulously, “do you even KNOW that band?”
Sure I do! Didn’t they have a few hits shortly after that other “new” group, The Beatles?
Old-fashioned. Teen fashionistas seem to suffer the delusion that everyone over 25 wore ankle length skirts with bustles to high school. Nonetheless, sometimes my bustle and breeches are at the cleaners and on those occasions I do wear jeans. Sadly, I insist on wearing a style that actually meets my waist and thus am rendered less than cool by my failure to show my underwear to the world at large.
There is a reason underwear is called “UNDERwear.” Innocent bystanders are not supposed to SEE it. It’s supposed to be – get this – UNDER something. I suggest your pants.
In a similar vein, pants have what is called a “waist” band. This is a clue as to where you should fasten them. It is not called a “mid-thigh” or “buttocks” band.
There is a very good reason for this. I came of age during the era of the tube top, I do not take lightly the propensity of bad fashion to leave lasting psychological scars.
I honestly stopped caring the minute I realized that most “trends” center on wearing items of clothing advertising products and artists that came out before the wearer was even alive!
Using this analogy I need to order my Pat Boone tee. I’ll get the “Glenn Miller” handbag to accessorize it.
When it comes to 911-ing the fashion police, I think the Atlanta City Council is being too conservative. Sure, banning droopy drawers and exposed underwear is a nice first step. I, however, would further like to see a total ban on anything that makes me feel old, unhip, or painfully out of the loop.
No shoes, no shirt, no service, and most importantly, no making me feel like I need to buy you a belt.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt “says no to crack.” She welcomes comments c/o; P.O. Box 38, Salem, OH 44460, or


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Warm, witty and just a wee bit warped, Kymberly Foster Seabolt is a native of Kent, Ohio, who survived childhood exposure to disco and grew up to marry and move to the country. Her column weaves her special brand of humor with poignant, entertaining, and honest portrayals of parenting, marriage, and real life. She currently lives in northeastern Ohio with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and numerous dust bunnies who wish to remain nameless.