Fashion-blogging Georgetown: The Man-Shorts of M Street

Nothing says “take me now” more in a man than lime-green shorts with wittle embroidered whales. Or anchors. Or whales being accidentally harpooned by the anchors amid a sea of madras patchwork.

And that’s the ironic beauty of it. The men who wear these shorts know they can get away with it. It’s like the fashion model who sports the batwing romper sack and is dubbed edgy as opposed to WHAT THE @#$%^ WERE YOU THINKING?!?!.

Dockers and blue button-downs? How prosaic. The man who embraces his love for the shades of wheat-grass, turquoise and Pepto Bismol displays his confidence: “I can buy and sell you and your family ten times over. Moreover, I will do so on my Hamptons heli-pad as lackeys parade my polo ponies for review.” The younger men aspirationally embrace J Crew, the starter brand of these shorts, post-lacrosse or pre-keg party.

Shorts like these are worn to make a statement: I am so rich I can afford to look like a total idiot.

One exception: The pants with the little martini glasses. These I like because they say that the wearer is comfortable with his cocktail habit: “Yes, I like to get my drink on. No, I see nothing wrong with sharing that with the world. When we meet for breakfast, I will order the bloody mary, and no, it will not be virgin. When we meet for lunch, I will greet you with a tumbler in hand, and it will be the first of many. When we meet for dinner, I will be three sheets to the wind and likely pinch your ass inappropriately - albeit in a charming, don’t-mind-him-his grandfather-was-eccentric-they-catch-him-wandering-around-the-estate-naked-every-so-often kind of way…”

Toodles!