Hostaged by Hawaiian shirts

Understandable: you are on a cruise ship to the Caribbean and it is summertime, so yes, tropical attire is in order: summer dresses for women and T-shirts and (ugh) shorts for men. You’ve said it one too many times: men’s knees are ugly but it’s not like you can do anything about that, plus they’re not going to disappear off the face of the earth anytime soon, so you really should stop bitching. Shorts are a necessary evil, you concede. 

But must you also endure their Hawaiian shirts? Those colors. Those shapes and sizes. You stare at them and figure that these pieces of wildly printed fabric that have holes for arms and necks fed to sewing machines to seal edges are actually one-size-fits-all because they just don’t seem to fit anybody well enough. They hang down men’s torsos like drapes would from a rod, no matter how big or small, short or tall a man is. The sleeves furl down to the elbows and the shirt, weighed down by gravity, falls in dents and creases in the most unflattering of places — accentuating what men are actually trying to camouflage.

 This must be the case since the physically fit, he-man, gym rat types strut about in the tightest of shirts if not altogether topless to best show off those six-packs. Men in Hawaiian shirts must have no pan de sals to speak of. The deep valley the shirt fabric dips into right above the beer belly swell seems to prove this — but hey, they’ve got fully-stocked bakeries in there that they’re trying to hide behind those dizzying prints.

 A thought on prints: You’re okay with the one palm tree — one. Okay, two might be forgivable depending on the size of the trees. But dozens? It’s as though we don’t get the message that the wearer is on vacation, thus, the redundancy of palm trees across every square inch of fabric. And the background! Joan Miro, eat your heart out. There’s Ferrari red, smiley face yellow, Hare Krishna orange, Listerine green, Barney purple, Slurpee aqua — get the picture? But it doesn’t stop there. You could probably live through the palm trees and the psychedelic colors with some Advil and very good champagne, but there has got to be legislation against hibiscus (gumamela) flower prints as big as your face. 

 Try walking behind a 6’2”, 250-pound man along a stretch of a 50-room corridor. By the time you get to the other side, you will have lost your mind, even if the ship were docked, because the tangerine hibiscus flowers against a purple background holding your stare are hallucinogens, you’re convinced. They appear to be growing by the second and rotating as the man waddles along.

 Why do men wear these shirts? You doubt they’re comfortable because they’re not 100-percent anything in terms of fabric component. How can your armpits breathe while you’re traipsing on a stretch of tropical beach sipping your piña colada? You’re baffled. They’re made of rayon: synthetic, manmade, artificial, therefore wash-and-wear and wrinkle-free all the freaking time. 

You had hoped those shirts would be more high-maintenance, needing at least a couple of days for washing, drying and ironing just so they could get out of the costume change loop longer. But, no. They’re ready to throw ‘em right back on once the washer and dryer spit them out. And so that 6’2”, 250-pound gentleman along the corridor yesterday is standing right in front of you again — your nose almost to his back — in the crowded scenic elevator as you descend from the club. You quickly realize that munching on the curried mixed nuts they serve with champagne cocktails is a bad decision since you feel like you’re about to see them come up again, only this time in globs on the floor. But the elevator bell pings in the nick of time, the door opens, and the ginormous hibiscus flowers wearing the gentleman amble out together.

 We know: Hawaiian shirts announce that their masters are happy to be on holiday, in case somebody misses the point. They are out of their office pinstripes and starched shirts and couldn’t care less about attire, so the shapeless sacks that more than make up for bad fit via color and graphics are the order of the day. Throw in some all-terrain sandals with or without socks and yahoo, and it’s party time — for them.

 Meanwhile, your nausea intensifies as more and more shirts materialize from staterooms into the public lounges and strictly-formal fine dining restaurants, and this time the champagne and Advil quit working and you’re officially sick  — not seasick, shirt sick!

 So you trudge away from the lobby, leaning against the wood-paneled hallways as you head to the shopping arcade because you know only shopping will cure you of Hawaiian shirt-itis. But guess what’s greeting you at the shop? More shirts hanging on wall-to-wall racks waiting to be purchased and worn every day of the seven days you are held hostage at sea.

 But the kids are having a blast so you put on your game face and soldier on even as your stomach lurches with every wave the ship cuts and every Hawaiian shirt you bump into, especially that purple one with the tangerine hibiscus flowers. You seem to see him everywhere.

 Up to the laundry room, where you had hoped to sit quietly listening to the drone of the washers and dryers, away from the assault of colors and two-dimensional botanical gardens, but you see him again — the exact same shirt with its 250-pound master. But before you can jump up and scurry to your room, the man flashes a smile and says, “Hi.”

 What choice have you got other than to smile back through your queasiness and reply “Hello”? You’re hoping it ends there so you can scoot away. But no.

 â€œIt’s laundry day for us,” he says. Concentrating is a challenge since 5’5” inches comes up to right about his breastbone where three quarters of an orange hibiscus sits staring back at you.

 You nod instead and think: Should he not throw in his shirt with the rest of the load so everybody gets a bit of a break here?

 He hops over the bench you’re seated on and empties his hamper into the machine. You spy a lady’s sundresses — his wife’s, you gather — and some baby clothes: tiny shirts with faces of Elmo and Mickey Mouse. 

 Curious, of course, you ask: â€œHow’s the wife today?”

 He smiles and says, “She’s taking her beauty nap. I’m always on laundry duty. It’s relaxing, actually. She cooks, cleans and babysits. Not great at those things so I told her ‘I’ll take laundry detail.’ Six years’ worth of laundry and a 10-month-old later, I’m still at it.” He laughs again and the Hibiscus flowers seem to contract and expand as his belly jiggles.

 You can’t find anything to say and it feels right to just sit and listen. He seems pleased to do all the talking. 

 â€œIsn’t it great to be here and cruising and all? No work, no boss and just... laundry?” He laughs some more.

 He keeps on, story after story, about how his baby loves the carpet pattern in their stateroom and how his wife ditched her main course at dinner and ordered three desserts and wiped them out.

 You listen and by the time one of the dryers buzzes and interrupts your conversation, you’re not feeling quite that nauseous anymore and you notice the hibiscus flowers: their details are fascinating up close. The anthers are green and the pistils are a deeper shade of purple.

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Thank you for your letters.  You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.