As I sat there enjoying the music at Celtfest, I chanced to look down to my legs. It was easy to do because, as the picture attests, I was wearing shorts, even though it turned out to a chilly day. That's pretty well what I do all summer long; it's my garb of choice. It's comfortable. It's summer.
If I were both sensitive and sensible, however, I should probably heretofore desist. Because as I gazed down, I beheld tiny little creases crossing my legs from side to side. Oh my! Wrinkles! For the sake of others if not for my own almost spent dignity, I really should change my sartorial habits, cover up, and continue on into my decline with a modicum of grace.
But I won't. And it's not the first time I've been a short rebel.
Fifty summers ago (exactly, I think), there came a hot summer day when I thought that it would be sensible to wear shorts. Of course, all I had of that particular article of clothing was my gym shorts. But, hey, they would do.
Well, apparently not. After I pedalled the three or four long blocks to my best friend's place to hang out for the afternoon, I became the object of scorn and derision for my fashion faux pas. It seems that AC was a little avant garde when it came to summer apparel, and shorts were most definitely not in at that point in history.
I was mocked and teased, and I didn't wear them again. The funny thing is that I don't recall being terribly embarrassed. It was as if I received a fashion lesson: that wearing shorts was not cool — even on a hot day. So, I desisted.
I suppose that I didn't wear shorts again for a few more years, but I changed and times changed, and pretty soon, they became my summer standard.
And despite my aging, wrinkled-ness, so they shall remain.
Note: I met up with that best friend about ten years ago now, in summer, and it strikes me that he was and no doubt still is a long pants guy. I wonder if that's so. He reads or used to read this blog, a lurker who has never commented. Perhaps he would like to report his current views. Eh, old friend.
