Shorts and simple pleasures
Rules to live by
Brittle temperatures and sharp winds do little to sway my desire to unleash the pasty, porcelain stems I have as legs. For this reason, I’ve been known to wear shorts too early in the season and far too late. It’s my way of manifesting the halcyon days of summer.
On more than one occasion, friends, foes, and anyone in between, have called me out for it. Emboldened by the dozens of panted legs surrounding them, my friends will administer a healthy serving of banter that’s targeted and stinging in its delivery—as is their duty.
“Shorts? Really, dude? It’s November.”
“Bit early for shorts eh, Al?”
These people simply don’t get it. The unbridled joy of calves unleashed, ankles exposed, kneecaps whistling in the wind is too tempting a vice to skip at the behest of some groupthink.
I do have rules, though. Guardrails that keep my shorts-forward lifestyle in check.
I don’t wear cargo shorts. I’ve rarely enough inventory to fill the cavernous pockets. Plus, any garment that extols such blatant storage hubris is just an open invitation to my wife to use me as a mule for her inconsequential knick-knacks. Thus, freeing her to gallivant through the streets untethered and unencumbered while I trudge along like a fully-loaded clydesdale. Not my jam.
Zip-offs or convertible shorts also have no place in my wardrobe. It’s either long or short, there’s no scenario I need to switch between the two. And no, I have no interest in hiking.
I subscribe to the belief that shorts shouldn’t drape too low. There’s a sweet spot that’s just a couple inches above the knee that I aim for. But I’ve also been known to go shorter, which reveals the whiter-whites of my thighs, especially when cycling. This is uncomfortable for some, usually bystanders, but I’m okay with it.
Shorts at the office is a dangerous game to dabble in. It’s deeply unsettling to see an adult striding to the communal coffee pot, legs free’d and boastful in a pair of smart-casual khaki shorts or jean cut-offs. I try to steer clear.
Since going tropical, I haven’t had to dwell on such things. I haven’t worn pants or jeans in nearly 5 months. The same is true for shoes with laces.
It didn’t start this way, though.
Despite being a shorts-heathen, when I arrived in the Caribbean I was wearing skinny black jeans and a light-but-sorta-heavy sweater. Fresh from a blustery New York in my winter-ready attire, I was sweltering under the heat of a thousand percent humidity.
There’s a real sense of panic that comes with being improperly dressed for the weather. In this instance my senses and psyche were rattled by the fact that drinking water was out of reach, the fans in the baggage claim moved at a pace that would rival the government’s ability to approve a stimulus package (zing!), the air was thick and still, and the inescapable sun was searing my delicately freckled skin.
I felt like there were walls closing in around me. And those walls were as real as the gargantuan sweat droplets glistening and cascading down my face and lower back.
But I stayed the course. I powered through the heat of the arrivals lounge and the sweaty stickiness of my steamy legs to reach my nirvana: a shorts-oriented community where the living’s easy and the legs are free.
As I write these words, I raise my glass in honor of the garment once deemed a fashion faux pas. A clothing choice once labelled ‘boyish’ or ‘inappropriate’. Because if there’s one thing I think we can all get behind, it’s the idea that simple pleasures need celebrating.
To shorts.
To breezy days.
To meaningless blog posts.
To livin’.
#FreeTheKnees