Who Wears Short Shorts? I do.
Y’all the temperature just crept over 80 degrees the other day which means a few things; I can finally stop bitching about my bones being cold, my Vitamin D deficiency, and my ghost like complexion and can instead focus on more important things like where the nearest (vegan) ice cream shop is, which pair of sunglasses match my outfit, and whether or not my body is bikini, short short, crop top, and sundress ready.
After being covered up all those winter months, the thought of leaving the house without my usual arsenal of layers (scarf, beanie, gloves, pullover) felt a bit…strange. But anyone that knows me knows that feeling strange has never stopped me from doing anything, ever. In fact, I tend to gravitate towards these kinds of situations.
A few days ago, I had plans to meet my boyfriend for dinner and then we were going to a short film screening. The audience would watch several Berlin-themed short films and then vote for their favorite. Before arriving, however, I’d done my fair share of self-critiquing— particularly on whether or not the people of Berlin should be exposed to my “second butt” (I’ll explain later.) This inner monologue wasn’t anywhere near abnormal for me. From an early age, young females learn to adopt this Eeyore persona every goddamn time they get dressed. Like many women I know, I grew up in a society where young females are taught to weigh whether or not their clothes will attract negative attention (this my friends, is a prime example of Rape Culture.)
Below are some phrases that I have actually asked myself while attempting to get dressed:
- Will this dress cause negative attention from men?
- Will I be verbally harassed when I walk from my car to the club?
- Will I be safe walking at night in this?
- Will my male colleagues be distracted by my boobs if I wear this shirt?
- Will my male friends respect me if I show too much skin?
This kind of negative thinking is not only detrimental to cultivating self-respect and self-worth but it also has a weird side effect, like inadvertently seeking out this kind of attention in order to validate your own beauty. Yep, fucked up, I know.
Short Seasonal Affected Disorder
Finally, here it is, the inner monologue I had as I put on my first pair of shorts for the summer (or as I like to call them daisy dukes.) They are high waisted and occasionally expose my “second butt” (every girl who has a big butt knows what I’m talking about. After your first cheek ends, there is a second mound of padding just below.)
I put my short shorts on.
Beyonce Me - “You look good, really good. I am so happy it’s warm enough to wear shorts.”
I check the bathroom mirror and see a bit of cellulite peeking out, some dimpling in my thighs. Mood sinks.
Eeyore me - “Maybe you shouldn’t wear these. You want to be comfortable, don’t you? There is nothing worse than seeing a girl pulling or tugging at her clothes because she isn’t comfortable with the way her clothes fit.”
Beyonce me - “Oh shut up, it’s just bad lighting in here. You look damn cute.”
I check the mirror in my bedroom for affirmation.
Beyonce me - “Yep, told you so.”
I pack up my stuff and get ready to hit the road. As I climb on my bike, I hope that I didn’t just flash the neighborhood kids my ass cheeks.
Once on my majestic bike, the music pumps through my earbuds, and I feel fierce (not Sasha Fierce more like Lemonade fierce.) Gliding through the street, my long legs propel me forward. As I pass by a crowded cafe with people spilling out onto the sidewalk, I secretly hope a former fuckboy sees me and misses my legs curled up around him. Boy bye.
Though I'm feeling damn good, I advertently try to avoid any reflections in store windows so I don’t ruin the high I'm on. Now that I'm on an empty street, however, it’s the perfect opportunity for me to take a quick peek.
Oh no, big mistake. Instead of a cutesy goddess on a bicycle, I see a puffy bunch of material over my lower abdomen.
Eeyore me- “I have fucking FUPA, WTF!!! Why the fuck did I wear these shorts? They really only look good if I’m standing. As soon as I sit, I look 6 months pregnant. Goddamnit.”
Beyonce me- "Chill, girl. You got this. Anyways, it's too late to go back now, you're almost there.”
Eeyore me- “Not one guy has given me the up-down. Not one guy has hollered at me. Not one girl has given me the jealousy death stare."
I catch another glimpse of myself in a store window and tell myself to shut up, seriously shut up, once and for all. I am a runner. I love to dance. I adore riding my bike. I come from a long line of women who have the widest of hips, the thickest of butts, and the most thunderous thighs.
Not only am I related to some pretty magnificent ladies but I am friends with even more -- so then why the hell would I waste one single second being ashamed of those cute little pockmarks in my thighs?
Those aren’t blemishes ladies, those are fucking beauty marks.
I am a few days away from being thirty and I am the healthiest I have ever been. I run every other day, I don’t have a car (relying solely on my bike to move me through the city), and I go dancing at least once a week. And you know what? I still have cellulite.
SO FUCKING WHAT? GUESS WHAT IMA DO? IMA WEAR THESE DAMN SHORTY SHORTS AND IMA FEEL EVERY KIND OF SEXY WHEN I DO.
Girls, hear me out. This short season, you better let your motherfucking thunder thighs roll. Buy that bikini with the strappety straps. Squeeze yourself into those daisy dukes. Cramp yourself into that crop top. But most importantly, wear whatever the fuck you want. The weather’s hot. You’re hot. Be safe, but seriously -- own that SHIT!
And when you see a girl who is about to bust out of her sundress, or you see a voluptuous lady with a girthy FUPA rockin’ some mom jeans, instead of feeling sorry for her, or mentally lecturing her, give her a fucking HIGH FIVE, a HELL YEAH, or an OOH GIRL. Because it takes some big fucking ovaries to wear that shit in a society that repeatedly says you shouldn’t.