BY DESIGN : Confessions of the Khaki-Impaired
They hang in the darkest part of the closet, one after another, evidence of my failures.
While some men can never find a jacket that hangs right and some women search in vain for the perfect pair of jeans, the bane of my wardrobe is khaki.
Each spring I trek from store to store, trying every conceivable type of these pants. Chinos look too stiff while thinner fabrics hang shapeless. Pleated fronts bubble on me. Plain fronts wrinkle across the crotch--hardly flattering.
Exasperated, I choose the pair that suffers from the lesser of these evils. I wear them once, maybe twice, then retire them to my own khaki graveyard.
Granted, not all of one’s demons are so easily handled, pushed down past a sweater too thick for California winters and a threadbare blue blazer.
But it has become my labor of Sisyphus. I can find other types of pants that fit. Shirts and shorts present no problem. Why am I so miscast, khaki-wise? I refuse to stop buying them, nor will I resort to a tailor, which, at this point, would cheapen the victory I so desperately seek.
My failures remain hanging in the dark, a dozen or so pairs, testament to the struggle. And if it seems I am taking this all too seriously, know that I am not the first to be carried away by khaki.
The stuff originated in the 1840s, when British soldiers dyed their white uniforms with tea or coffee to hide amid dusty terrain. Apparently, the British army felt proprietary over such inventiveness. During the Boer War, at the turn of the century, soldiers executed any Dutch settlers caught in military khaki.
How odd that blood was shed over what has become casual menswear. Khaki, after all, bridges the vast terrain of acceptability between denim and creased wool serge. It is a grown-up version of children’s clothes.
Perhaps that is its power.
My annual hunt began on a hopeful day last week. At the Gap, I found a promising pleated pair in olive green, but there were none in my waist size. J. Crew had plenty of stock, but all were too baggy.
At such times, mail order seems enticing. I have seen plenty of fine khakis in the L.L. Bean catalogue, but, at the mention of this, a liberal friend took me aside. It seems that the granddaughter of the late L.L. Bean who ran for a Maine congressional seat is not politically correct enough for my friend’s taste.
“You cannot buy from them,” my friend insisted.
Is it becoming clear how this endeavor mocks me?
So it went. Store after store, mall after mall, a blur of twills and poplins.
When Ralph Lauren let me down, I grew angry. There was always Brooks Brothers, but, whenever I walk into that store, I feel disheveled. My anger simmered to resignation. Another year, another failure.
I calmly recount these events only because the other day my quest finally ended. I walked into Banana Republic to look at shirts and stumbled across the answer: a plain pair with a waist that fit comfortably. The pants bagged just enough, tapering at the knee. No tailoring required. A whoop of joy resounded from the dressing room.
“So,” another friend asked, “did you buy two pairs?”
Of course not. What would I have to look forward to next year?
