Dear polos: I hate you.

Dear polos: I hate you.

Yes, you, you polyblend summer uniform sonsofabitch. In your men’s incarnation you are baggy and, somehow, despite that fact you still manage to make me twenty pounds heavier. How? I don’t know! If I did, I’d sell the technology to some Russians wanting to shame their enemies. And don’t get me started on the embroidered ones of you: either the embroidery awkwardly lies halfway up my shoulder, because polos don’t fit humans, or it lies halfway down my breast, making every interaction with a customer a morass of uncomfortable glances.

But you’re not getting off either, ladies-cut polos. No–if anything, you’re worse. What is it that prompted every polo manufacturer in America to size their polos for twelve-year-olds? They cling uncomfortably up top–both revealing the outline of your bra and giving the general public the impression you are some magical primate with a single breast–and bunch around your stomach. Even Jillian Michaels would have stomach fat the way these things fit. And, unlike the overlarge mens’ polos which give you an extra foot of fabric if you dare to tuck them in, these beauties manage to stop two inches above the waistband of your shorts.

It doesn’t matter what shorts you are wearing.

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