Remember back in 2012, when everyone wanted to look like a 12-year-old aspiring hooker en route to Coachella?
I am talking, of course, about the crop top. The smaller the better. I’m not sure who can be credited for the birth of this trend—I suspect a Kardashian is in order—but whoever it was, it worked. I spent the majority of my years at university traipsing around in shells of my former shirts: No t-shirt was left un-cut, no high-waist pair of denim shorts were left without a trusty boob sling (the only way I can think to describe the phenomenon that was the lacy bandeau).
This became a difficult trend to sustain sometime around my fourth year, when my metabolism caught up with me and I arrived at the unfortunate realization that I could no longer down an entire pizza and surface ten minutes later in a glorified bra. I needed a baggy tee, some water, and possibly ulcer medication.
Slowly, the craze started to die down (or maybe everyone else’s metabolisms collectively ghosted them too) and the crop tops disappeared. Menocore followed normcore. Mothers everywhere sent their daughters “see I told you so” texts followed by an e-coupon for J. Jill. What a time to be alive!
Maybe I just grew up and left my UVA bubble of really terrible stylistic choices, but lately I’ve been noticing a new type of cropped invention: The fashion crop. Be it part of a coordinated set or flowy and vaguely retro-inspired, the new crop trend is here and like any good sheep I’m ready to follow.
Which is why, when I found this shoulder-padded chartreuse wonder (c/o my eternally chic grandmother) in me mam’s closet I was thrilled.
See? Literally over the fucking moon. And I never smile, because it ruins the image I’m trying to build of myself as a cool New Yorker who knows where Washington Square Park is and has been to Brooklyn more than twice.
Paired here with white cropped flare jeans that are trying to be high-waist but thanks to my abnormally long torso are failing miserably, the crop top is more fashion than festival. At least I hope so, or else I will have looked like a damn fool running around Soho at 7 in the morning. New York City does not look kindly upon those who exude too much West Coast-iness.