Shorts Subject

Summertime and the living' ain't easy...

Yeah, I know. It's hot. You don't have to tell me. I don't have to tell you. Is it getting hotter? Sure seems to be. The world's on fire. I know it's summer. Don't state the obvious. It's becoming unbearable and not because I'm getting older. Everyone is, ya fool. 

Here in Oregon, we don't do heat. The temp rises to 100 and the local news announces a warning of EXTREME WEATHER CONDITIONS. But unlike other parts of the country where it maintains a constant cooking temperature, we Oregonians bitch and moan about it until it goes away in a couple of days, back to what could be considered normal for us. Then it returns and the whole process begins all over again-lather, rinse, repeat.

However, I find myself in the uncomfortable position of wearing shorts. This is abnormal behavior for me. I'm just not a short pants person. Never have been, even as a kid. In recent years, I've conceded to wearing them around the house (or apartment as my case might be), but out in public? That's where I usually draw the line, that is, until lately. My smart-ass line of defense is usually "You're going to have to pay good money to see these legs." No one has taken me up on that, not even spare change. I would have taken a check. 

So what's my hesitation? It's not my legs. They're still in pretty decent shape. A few years back, I was in the A.R. Gurney play SYLVIA where I played three roles-male, female and to be decided. (I suppose now the character could be considered non-binary.) Anyway, greeting the audience after the show one night, an older gentleman approached me with the line "Hey, you gotta nice set of legs." Even though flattered, I still called security. (My wife has made the same comment, but her opinion actually matters.) Under wraps from the sun, my stems are pretty translucent, so there's that, but that's not the issue. What is it then, you nutjob? I suppose I feel too vulnerable, as though I've afraid of losing whatever dignity I have left, such as it is. In another play, I appeared in the buff from behind when I dropped the only thing I was wearing on stage at the time, that being towel. So much for my spurious argument. 

But that was then (25 years ago) and this is now. I finally had to bow under to the pressure, the high pressure that is Since I'm still working, I reserve the 95 degree plus days for the donning of the shorts. Some wear better than others, though I'm restricted by a goddamn company dress code. (At my fucking age. Jesus Horatio Christ) So I'm stuck with khaki Cargos. One has leg holes twice the size of my thighs. I call them my fat shorts. I wisely try not to look in the mirror for fear I won't be able to leave the house so I avoid any and all if possible in this garb. Accidentally catching my reflection in a window the other day nearly gave me the cue to run into freeway traffic. Horrified, I can see myself as I truly was in my sporty ensemble that day consisting of those attractive overweight bloomers, a bright blue polo shirt w/company logo and an ID lariat around my scrawny neck. I looked like the Head Counselor at Camp Polanski. "Hey, kids! Who wants to go an overnight nature hike?"

At least I'm not wearing black socks. White crews are evidently off the menu as well, looking almost as dorky, but at least blending in with the paleness of my gams. Now, after more whining from yours truly, I've been forced to don low-cut ankle socks which I had abhorred for decades. They creeped me out over the years. I have a tendency (or nervous habit, if you will) of pulling my socks up more than the average bear. Wearing this non-footwear, I can't. They won't make it past the top of the shoe. My ankles are exposed. They are my Achilles heels. They're out there for the world to see and do their business on or with or...I have foot issues, okay? I have a lot of issues if you want to know the ugly truth. More like volumes, but that's beside the point. (Or is it?) The bottom line is what my spouse told me so. I forgot all about them after awhile. Fine. I'll admit when I'm wrong. This time. Wait. Now they're an issue with these as well? Thanks, Gen Z! Who asked you? Go stare off into space and leave me alone, you little goons.

Whatever the damn hell. I've had it with summer. Get this season over and done with already. Soon the air will turn cool and crisp, the leaves and foliage will transform into a beauteous display of autumn, my favorite time of year. 

Then I can start my incessant bellyaching about pumpkin spice.

Can't wait.