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rinueI have procured some truly dreadful culottes -- high-waisted, cropped at mid-calf, made in a hideous drab-brown-on-drab-green floral print. I am delighted by them in a way that even I find difficult to understand. I can tell I am wearing them as an act of aggression, but against what? I don't even feel hateful about it; I feel that I am doing the world a favor.
I do know that my love for these pants is not ironic or camp, although, again, I don't understand how I can love them for their hideousness non-ironically. It might have something to do with the sublime. It might have to do with the fact that a week ago I spent more than a minute staring with unmasked joy at a 2-year-old's meltdown at IKEA, knowing the kid was fine and the parents were fine.
I do know that my love for these pants is not ironic or camp, although, again, I don't understand how I can love them for their hideousness non-ironically. It might have something to do with the sublime. It might have to do with the fact that a week ago I spent more than a minute staring with unmasked joy at a 2-year-old's meltdown at IKEA, knowing the kid was fine and the parents were fine.
