An open letter from Sir James Lipton to the person with the high waters

Dear high-water-wearing domestic gentleman,

I am posting this letter to the open ranges of the World Wide Web in a vain attempt to both help you, my fellow "man," and to selfishly sooth my reason-wearied mind. You, the one shopping at Market of Choice, paying $6.99 a pound for grilled vegetables that would cost you $1.37 to roast yourself. You, the one sifting through the columnular bins of $40 dollar imported South African Muscat. You, the driver of a shiny new, as their site says, "teensy," silver Volvo C30 (which I am ashamed to admit, I envy). To you, I ask:

Why, oh why, are you wearing a jeans outfit with denim pantalons that are 3 inches too short?

I have spent hours and days trying to answer this question from within the smoothened, bedarkened synaptic funnels of my brain. Like the calculated suggestion of chaos in the aisles of a 7-eleven, my mind is cluttered with floating piles of delectable junk food free-radicals calling out to me to engorge myself in a continual ADHD-like state of savory distraction. But I have rejected the delicious Cheetoh-like mental enticements of work, family, and the Internet in favor of focusing on this single, befuddling question. And I am raw with bewilderment, though not without theory...

Now to be clear, my first inclination was to give you the benefit of the doubt. Standing at the pristine, well-stocked deli counter wearing a jeans ensemble two sizes too small, my first generous estimation was something like, "Ahh. This fine sir must be from abroad. The Adriatic perhaps. Maybe fresh in from my beloved Buenos Aires, or (be still my culinary heart), yes, I flither, a Parisian sous chef for Alain Passard himself on a whirlwind visit to Oregon to acquire the unique ingredients for truffle ice cream with poached pear in an aged balsamic vinegar. Ah, yes, my good man, this shall indeed make for an exquisite evening at the beloved Arpege." But no. An order for a broccoli and onion calzone with a side of ranch blathered shamelessly out of your North American mouth, thus destroying any chance of an exotic explanation for your complete lack of couture.

After abandoning my thoughts of you like so much silky rayon at the end of a bolt of Joann Fabrics 1/2 price taffeta, I was once again forced to confront this question when you distractedly inserted yourself between my cart and the backside of the feminine gentle giant in front of me at the check stand. I did not mind this small societal faux pas, as my cart was loaded down with unmarked fruit and expiring Kombucha, and all you had was your nicely sealed calzone box, a diet Coke, and the Maxim magazine that you acted as if you found so engaging.

As you know, the wait in line was as always, sheer agony. The longer I stood in range of your dated Drakkar Noir scent, the more my mind raced with possible explanations. I wanted to believe that you were impoverished. I wanted to believe that you were in need of government assistance (good heavens). Were these the rags that awaited you after a long awaited innocence-proclaimed 15 year stint in the clink where you, "took the heat," for your invalid and ever-so-delicate younger brother, that ragamuffin? Were you the noble bearer of two new prosthetic limbs, requiring shorter trousers to accommodate the extra long legs you requested (certainly, if I were unjustly robbed of my legs, I would as well have checked the box on the prosthesis application that says, "Optional 3-inch lift kit with adjustable drive time suspension?")? A bout of scurvy due to being lost at sea for months on an ill-fated search for life's meaning, only to be thrown into a volcano from which you in turn were hurled to safety, here, to me, in Oregon?

In those fleeting moments, I would have gambled away my grandmother's eyes that you would pay in food stamps or small, crumpled bills. But no. You barely looked up at the aloof unsmiling checker, who could not even see the ever-whitening fever pitched glow of your tube socks, and paid with a credit card that I wryly surmised had an anagram for, "Yutz," buried somewhere between your middle name and the letters of your PIN. After all of this, you sauntered past the hood of your leather-girded silver beast, gleeked your FOB, and as you prepared to sit down, hiked your pants up even further (my lord and my god) revealing nothing but more, white, sock.

And then, in a fit of brilliance this morning, it hit me. I nearly choked on my beloved Darjeeling. Like a searing aphrodesial vat of Mexican hot chocolate, I was born again into this one, deliciously soluble truth. You, my friend, are quite clearly, not what you appear. You, are not a man of ill-conceived fashion. You, my sweet Crying Game, are simply a pixie in wolf's haberdashery. An imp, my muse, of the most delightfully mischievous sort. Your waggish lingering in front of the cream-on-top yogurt section; Your feigned look of bewilderment at my selection of non-toxic organic free-range cage-free vegan cleaning solutions and egg whites? Your willing, come-hither push-button request for a cleanup on aisle six...Do you take me for a common gudgeon? A mooncalf? A Schmo?

But I digress. I write this humble epistle as a call unto thee to reveal thyself. I must know. Was your beshortened garb a tease, a tantalizing suggestion, a cock-and-bull story of the most enticing and scabrous sort? Was it a suggestion to only the most refined of eye of the capri pant that was so devishly chic (and desirable) in my youth, that only a woman of such refinement as yourself would know? If so, I must tell you: I am intrigued. Such a beguiling mind as one that could come up with this, this elaborate, perfectly executed ruse, simply to trap my knighted mind's eye even for a short time, is one worthy of deeper, fuller exploration. Please. For the love of my dear friends and dare I say, colleagues, Hanae Mori, Christian Dior, and Miuccia Prada, shower me with your sweet, delicate reply.

Lovingly and with great anticipation,
S...JLo.