The RompHim: A Conversation Starter

Rompers are a summertime fashion staple. When the weather gets hot, it’s a great time to don a chic, form-fitting romper, usually with patterns appropriate for the season. This past summer, fashion had to make way for the RompHim—a romper designed for men.

 “Here’s the thing, it all depends on one very specific fact, and that’s what he’s dealing with in the caboose area,” said USF student and fashion enthusiast Miiraf Arefeaine, 21, when asked her thoughts on if a guy came to a date dressed in a RompHim. “You know, most of the time, guy’s jeans don’t show off a great butt because they’re not designed to accentuate or just like, show off the male body,” she said, her last few words through laughter. “So, I think, given that we ladies have gotten the chance to show off our butts in rompers for years and years,” she explained, “I think that it’s great men also get that chance.”

RompHim, is the brand of fame for male rompers. The company began launching products in May 2017 and has sold over 5,000 RompHims to date. In event of the launch, various media sources picked up on the RompHim including GQ, Esquire, Buzzfeed, the LA Times, CNN, and even SNL has referenced the style.

Another student, and known Brooks Brothers fan, Kevin Leary, 21, initially said, “It’s a joke. The whole thing’s a joke, right?” Insisting that the concept of the fashion choice was satire, and denying that he would wear one, even if his girlfriend told him he looked good in them. However, after hearing Arefeaine’s thoughts on presenting the male ‘caboose’ he admitted, “Alright that’s fair, if a guy’s got a great ass, he can wear a RompHim.”

USF sociology student Natalia Caprile, 21, as well as Leary, criticized the lack of fun patterns and prints the RompHims have. When asked what she would think if she saw her crush wearing a RompHim she said, “I mean my crush has done a lot of pretty humiliating things in public before, so I feel like a part of me would be like—“ she paused to groan. “I’m just being real here, OK, here’s the thing, in theory, it’s like, not weird, but then you see it and as Kevin pointed out earlier, it just looks like old-timey pajamas because they’re super baggy in the leg area,” Caprile said, referring to a conversation she had on RompHims prior to the interview. 

“They’re all like, pastel-y. Normal rompers you can get fun patterned ones or floral ones or whatever, the only romp-romp—what is it?” Leary asked, forgetting the name of the clothing brand.

“RompHim,” Caprile and Arefeaine both replied, jokingly exasperated.

“Boy Romps I’ve seen are just dumb pastel colors, which make them look more like pajamas,” Leary finished his thought.

Arefeaine expressed that she thought it to be “lovely” that men have the opportunity to wear rompers, and that they don’t necessarily need to be “caged in by the RompHim brand specifically.” She said, “I think that men need to find their sizes, and investigate, and do their squats, and work on that caboose action, and really just own the RompHims.” In all honesty, she explained that if a guy showed up to a date in a RompHim, she would, in fact, be surprised. Arefeaine said it depended on what she and her date were planning on doing, for example, if they were going to a movie, and it was cold and at night, she’d think “Whoa, that’s a decision. That’s a choice. You committed.” She said, “Then, I’d stealthily check out his butt, I’d hopefully be pleasantly surprised, and I’d say ‘Hell yeah, let’s keep doing this.’”

On the other hand, if she was disappointed with her date’s posterior, she would stay on the date and “see if his interior butt was worth it, and made up for lack of exterior butt.” Arefeaine explained her concept of the “interior butt” to be “the spirit of the booty,” and “emotional and intellectual squats”—which seems to be owning the confidence in wearing a male romper, as well as the classic concept of internal beauty over external beauty. She even advises men to dip into the world of jumpsuits and tight overalls. “Check out different, things, check out what works for you. Get in there, men. Fashion is all about just putting one cheek in and just checking it out,” said Arefeaine.  

The Performance - College Apartment

The lighting is just a little bit weird—the cheap fluorescent gleams off the white tile floors and the white walls. The couch has blankets strewn across it, and the coffee table is riddled with icy glasses, a closed folder, a plastic pencil case, a phone, a sweating green bottle of San Pellegrino, a laptop, an empty bowl with the remains of Kevin’s dessert—strawberries and yogurt (which just looked like red chunks submerged in a strandy goo), a mostly-filled bowl of quinoa (which Mia hasn’t finished because she left to meander around her room, her shoulder to her ear, phone precariously perched, talking to her mom, switching her language from Amharic to English); Natalia washes dishes in the background, a slight clattering of hard plastic amidst the running water.

Natalia and Mia return to the couch. “I swear every time you clear your throat, it’s like someone starting up a lawn-mower,” Mia says to Natalia. She’s being honest, but not to hurt Natalia’s feelings. They gab.

Natalia picks up the folder and plastic pencil case—pulling out an assortment of colored pens, and various reading material.

Mia alternates between sifting through her bowl of quinoa with a fork, and her taking long sips from her bottle of San Pellegrino.

Kevin retreated to his room at some point; the light in his room is on and warmer than the kitchen/living room lights; in the distance he can be heard flipping papers at his desk. He silently closes his door; he’s still wearing his blue corduroy cap even though it’s almost midnight.

Natalia puts a pen in her mouth and stares pensively at her reading material.

“Does anyone need to like, pee or anything?” Mia asks, heading to the bathroom—it’s the usual common courtesy question before one of the roommates takes a shower—there’s only one small bathroom in this 1,200 square foot Outer Sunset apartment. No one has to pee--a typical night.

Restaurant Review: Bob’s Donuts

I’ve never been to Bob’s Donuts—the 24 hour pastry shop in Nob Hill—during the day. I’ve spent many Saturday nights sitting propped up on the cushioned stools of the Bob’s bar, munching on doughnuts and drinking milk with friends. The majority of the times I’ve been there it’s between 9 p.m. and 2 a.m., the line winds out the door, and young, drunken adults shuffle their way slowly to the front, patient and eager. At these hours, it makes sense there’s a homey, warm, grungy-on-the-outside looking doughnut shop gracefully placed among the many trashy bars and clubs—there’s even a Good Vibrations shop across the street. Bob’s is a sort of beacon.

I walk in to Bob’s a little after 10 a.m. on a Thursday. There’s no line (only a couple of people in front of me), no drunken 20 or 30 somethings, and no mentions of the dildos known to be across the street. Instead there’s types of customers I don’t usually see at Bob’s--a lady with straight blonde, wearing flip flops and a camouflage backpack that buys a plain, sugar doughnut, an old man at one of the back tables reading a newspaper, a family that looks like two grandparents and a young girl that doesn’t look older than five, a man in a long-sleeved button down shirt tucked into his slacks that can’t help but take a bite of his chocolate old fashioned before he hurries out the door.

The space is comforting. My boyfriend has said that all doughnut places are the same, but there’s something sentimental about Bob’s. Maybe it has to do with the décor—the large painting of pastries on what looks like a grassy hill (but it’s hard to tell) on the wall behind the counter, or the various framed doughnut-themed portraits and photographs on the walls that the tables along the side of the shop are fastened to. There’s various signs scattered on the walls of the shop to, one says “Coffee: if you’re not shaking, you need another cup,” and another says “Be healthy, drink milk.” The steaming pots of coffee on the counter by the register tempt me. But it could also just be welcoming atmosphere in this shop that has continuously drawn me here for the past three years. Something about the towers of pink doughnut boxes stacked on the counter, or the fun late nights with friends where we watched Braveheart on the large TV near the back of the shop.

Today, I can see I’ll have no trouble finding a seat; the place is pretty empty. Behind the counter three women work—one has a head of gray hair, and her back is turned most of the time I’m there as she determinedly scrubs a rack in the large sink; one looks to be in her 20s, and is making fresh doughnuts; and one is at the cash register. I walk up and ask if they have any chocolate old fashions ready—the young woman is making fresh ones as we speak and the cashier carefully plucks one for me, warning that it’s hot.

I’m a little disappointed in myself when I realize I just ordered my go-to menu item at Bob’s, but I don’t care. Their chocolate old-fashioneds are amazing. They’re crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and since they’re dipped in chocolate, it gives it a moist, creamy feel that balances the textures out and keeps it from seeming dry. Bob’s Donuts makes perfect chocolate old-fashioneds and I debate in my head whether I should get another or not after devouring the one I just purchased.

However, I decide against it, which I know for certain I will regret later. But I stand and as I make my way to the exit, I notice the line has grown, and is now out the door as I take my leave.

My order:

Glazed doughnut (bought for a friend) and chocolate old fashioned = $2.75

Ratings on a 4 doughnut scale:

Food:

3 doughnuts

Price:

3 doughnuts

Location:

1 doughnut

(Self) Made in the U.S.A.

Sehar Mansoor, 32, used to live in Gujarat, India and looks back on her childhood with fondness. Mansoor lived happy and comfortable in a house with 20 family members-- each of whom had their own room--her family had maids, and she attended private school. However, in 2001, this all changed when she moved to the United States for political asylum when she was 16 years old.

India has a history of religious tensions between Muslims and Hindus. According to an article in the New York Times by John F. Burns, from December 1992 to January 1993 there was a surge of Hindu-Muslim riots known as the Bombay riots. “At least 1,100 people were killed, most of them Muslims… in a three-hour period on March 12, 1993, 13 bombs, reportedly set by leaders of the city’s Muslim underworld, killed more than 260 people and left more than 700 others injured,” Burns wrote. The Bombay riots were neither the beginning nor end of Hindu-Muslim rioting in India.

Mansoor said “I think the religious beliefs in India are really, really strong and they kind of forget who your neighbors were and who you grew up with. So that turmoil, of I guess, the Hindu-Muslim riots, didn’t turn out to be really well for my family.” She did not remember the name of the specific riots that affected her family, but she recalled the dispute and violence regarded ownership of a piece of land. She explained that some people in her community, “a densely populated Hindu area,” started to think that her parents were in support of the anti-Hindu Muslims. “My father was actually jailed,” she said. “In custody my dad had his first stroke and he was paralyzed. So, there was a lot of brutal beating and torture that my dad suffered while he was in custody.” Mansoor explained the police also wanted to arrest her mother, but didn’t when Mansoor’s father “surrendered himself instead.” When her late father was released from prison, he was bedridden. “That totally changed the dynamics of my family,” she said, explaining how although her family was large, her father was the only breadwinner.

“I absolutely hated America when I first came,” she said. Mansoor and her immediate family lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Oakland, California. The rest of her family parted ways to the U.S., Canada, and Bangladesh. Her father occupied the only bed in their small apartment due to his paralysis, and Mansoor, her mother and two sisters slept on the floor. She worked 12 hour shifts as a cashier at a gas station and was paid $4 an hour “under the table” for two years; she recalls the lack of safety she felt in that neighborhood, explaining how she once got her tires slashed because she refused to sell cigarettes to minors.

However, when she got the proper documentation to start working, she began to make her way up the professional ladder.

Now, she’s getting her Bachelor of Science in Business Administration degree at USF and works as a property accountant—both full-time; and in 2011 she and her sisters bought their own house. “I’m a self-made person. I started at the bottom,” Mansoor said. “I don’t think I’ve reached my peak yet but if this is where my life is, I’m pretty happy… I have a good job, I’m getting an education, I’m with my family,” she said, explaining how she and her sisters have done well through all their hard work.

“I sometimes do complain about why do I have to face all this adversity,” Mansoor said, “But I think all of this has just made me a stronger person.” 

Elevator Exercise

Elevators made me really nervous as a kid. Whenever I would enter a full elevator I had the sinking feeling, the anxiety, that it would come crashing down, that it would get stuck, that something disastrous and devastating would occur, because in my head, I thought elevators were held up by wires as thin and breakable as strands of hair.

I haven’t thought about this childhood fear in ages; in fact, I thought it was just something that phased out of my life, like many things do, until I recently spent nearly 30 minutes in the Lo Schiavo elevator on USF’s campus.

This elevator is gray. All gray. Metallic gray, gray tile, gray shine, gray buttons, gray ceiling, gray floor, gray walls, gray doors. I spent some time adamantly pressing the ground floor button and third floor button, riding between the four floors of this unfortunately short building. At first, I felt insightful. People just come and go in life, was one thought, I never really noticed handlebars in elevators until now, was another. I started feeling like I was on a ship and decided to stop pressing buttons and just stand in the idle elevator.

Suddenly the elevator lurched and I jumped forward towards the panel of buttons on the wall. I had created a plan in my head that if someone on the outside requested the elevator, I would have to press a button before the elevator reached whatever floor they were on—so it seemed as if I had a destination and wasn’t just loitering. However, no one had requested the elevator. It was just one of the natural rumbles that occurs within this machine, this contraption. I didn’t realize until that moment how jumpy I was.

Twelve minutes in and the dimmed but jarring lights feel like they’re glaring at me. I notice the heat behind my neck, right below the collar of my sweater; I feel as if I’m in a microwave that isn’t on but just being warmed by the heat of the lamp inside. My palms are unbelievably warm and clammy. Fifteen minutes in, I’m nauseous, I’m light-headed, and I feel the need to get out. I check my phone and notice a missed call—I have been rescued. I return the phone call. Suddenly, over the phone, I’m joking, I’m smiling, I’m having a great time conversing—and I don’t feel isolated anymore in this motionless microwave.  

Right before thirty minutes neared, I hung up the phone and stepped out of the metal trap—the air was cool, there was so much space to walk, so many different colors that weren’t gray. How could I forget there’s a whole world outside of that damn elevator? I felt like a free woman.