Okay, check out the guy to the left… now imagine him walking into the Price Club… NOW, imagine it’s not him but a guy who’s got him by 40 years, at least. His polo shirt tucked into his beige khaki shorts which are belted so far up that he’s proving that men, can in fact, have camel toe. He’s also wearing sandals… with tube socks… NOW imagine, it’s not one man but thirty seven men, all dressed the same way, the only variations being the color or pattern of their polo shirts and sneakers instead of sandals, but socks still pulled up to their knees!

That’s what I witnessed today. I was so struck by the site as they migrated toward the giant opened doors that I laughed out loud. Has that ever happened to you? You’re not talking to anyone, but something strikes you as funny and you can’t stop laughing and having no one to share it with, you keep laughing because you can’t get it out of your system?

I was mesmerized. Up and down the enormous isles of the Price Club I walked by one after another. I am clearly NOT in Los Angeles right now. Don’t they see each other? How is no one acknowledging this fraternity of fashion faux-pas? Even the angry tatted guys in Los Angeles give each other ‘the nod’ as they pass each other by with their black skinny jeans and tie-up boots in summer (unless of course they have tatted calves in which case they’re wearing cargo shorts).

Not that I was planning on dating a guy over 55, but if I were, that dream is now dead! I’m having awful flashbacks to Central Park, when I went to see Shakespeare in the Park. All the families were spread out on picnic blankets with their giant Igloos filled with food and drinks. The kids were running around like little sugar freaks, but I was stuck on ONE Grandpa. I know I should have shielded my eyes, but I couldn’t look away. As he sat atop his Igloo cooler, in his strained khaki shorts, his oversized beer gut hanging over what was surely a belt which had hiked his shorts up so high, that one “ball”… yes I said it, one ball had squeezed itself out of it’s suffocating covering. It was an unhealthy red color which kept my gaze from straying… was it red because the circulation was being cut off? Or for some stranger reason? “Look away!” I scolded myself, but I couldn’t. I’m nauseated at the thought…

And now, every time I go to the Price Club and see this mass gathering of khaki shorts, I’ll be stuck in the memory of the red ball, desperate for escape. Maybe I just won’t eat.

©2010