My new jean shorts are skin tight. Well, not exactly, but close.
I wanted a pair of shorts that I could wear all the time, like I used to wear cut-offs. I miss cut-offs, real cut-offs. I miss the lack of pretension, the accident of them, how they could be uneven and wrong but could be made right by pulling some threads and making a little fringe. I had great legs when I was young and I loved wearing cut-offs.
I am in a mood where I miss everything.
I miss a baby’s arms around my neck. I miss my stick shift Volkswagen. I miss fishnet stockings. I miss cigarettes, almost more than I can say. I miss Florida. I miss up north. I miss the library. I miss things in the next room.
It’s a mood. It’s temporary. Back to my shorts.
They’re tight but I have to hitch them up all the time like an old guy who lost a suspender. I wouldn’t have this problem if I had an ass but I don’t. It’s a lifetime problem, not age-related. Not everything is gerontological.
So I wondered about the shorts being tight. Is this a bad look for me? Will I look like the 70-year old cashier at the gas station who wears five rings and a tower of silver bracelets all the way up to her tattoo of an oak tree split in half by lightening? Chad, it says on her arm, she misses Chad. Who was Chad?
Fuck Chad! I say. Move on. There are other men. You should’ve never gotten the tattoo. Or it should have said, “Honey” or “Baby” so you could swap out Chad and swap in Brad or Sonny. It’s your fault you are sad. You would have forgotten him were it not for the tattoo.
I’m torn about the shorts but I wear them. They feel like Ace bandages for my thighs. This is not nothing, having this comfort.
I think I may have to love these shorts.