In tandem with the annual fervor for summer there is almost always inevitable dread. The heat that finds itself trapped in the pavement and concrete of New York City, the kind that makes your sunglasses slide off your nose and your back drip on the subway platform and even the ends of your hair stick aimlessly to the tops of your shoulders, is nearly intolerable. But perhaps worse than all of these discomforts combined is that of wrestling with a pair of jean shorts.
Before I go on, let me just say those long, baggy jorts Gen Z has brought back into fashion, the ones that got the panties of the New York “Post” in a bunch, are exempt from this conversation. I pardon them from any wrongdoing they may or may not have committed in the past and wish them a fruitful future. On the other hand, those tight, circulation-cutting Daisy Duke shorts must be stopped. These jean shorts are evil.
Year after year, ever since I bought my first miniature pair from Urban Outfitters circa 2012 (they may have been galaxy print), I’ve searched for a perfect pair of denim cutoffs. I’ve even, on numerous occasions, purchased a perfectly fine pair of jeans from the thrift store and cut them into shorts myself (my apologies to Levi Strauss). Only once or twice in over a decade have I been successful in buying or making a pair that didn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin after putting them on. A 10 percent success rate? That track record, anywhere else beyond the U.S. presidency, would be a fireable offense.
Every summer, in the sweltering 90-degree temperatures of the city, we try to make these glorified buttocks corsets work, but they never will. Jean shorts are simply, at their core, depraved. First and foremost, they don’t breathe. They suffocate parts of you that should get air (gyno’s orders). I just feel like if some experts are trying to convince me to sleep totally nude, how can I justify swaddling myself in thick denim? Before anyone tells me the shorts I’m getting are too small, let me tell you that I’ve tried every sizing trick in the book.
I’ve sized them up a little (these sometimes look like adult diapers). I’ve sized way up (the crotch will sit too low and creates a new set of problems worthy of an entirely different rant). I’ve tried men’s jeans that have found new life as women’s shorts (do you want your butt to look like that one flat fish from SpongeBob?). I’ve tried heavily washed and worn denim that is sworn to be soft (this is the closest I’ve gotten to finding comfort, but these tend to ride up in the middle of your thighs so much as to graze one another). I’ve even sized down to keep the stretching that ensues from wearing a pair at bay all day (this was my gravest mistake). And all of it comes up, well, short.
Tiny pants are hot. I get it. I can admit that it sometimes feeds the soul to wear a petite pair of glorified underwear (perhaps a little longer than the Free People micro shorts, though). But at what cost? Is it worth an uncomfortable seam wedging itself somewhere on your person? Or the endless potential for chafing in a plethora of bodily locations? Then again, maybe I’ve grown weak and soft. Maybe I’m reaching a certain age where feeling comfortable outweighs the gleeful high of feeling yourself. Like, the other day I really, truly did consider buying those weird toe spreaders in the name of orthopedic health …
At the end of the day — it’s what you’re comfortable with. If you feel dandy encasing yourself in a stiff pair of jorts, that’s your prerogative. But for the rest of us who’ve persevered one too many summers, let us go forth on our journey to find ventilated yet somehow flirty shorts. I’m unsure if such a thing even exists. Still, if it does, we’ll at least be freeing our minds of one less summer inconvenience to think about, which leaves plenty of room and time to think of more pressing seasonal matters, like if you can get away with wearing flip-flops in the city’s streets
