I quickly showered after my run and threw on clothes to take my daughters, Grace and Isabelle, into downtown Santa Barbara to run a few errands. Our little house is in the city, so we were walking towards State Street, where all the shops are. The girls exchanged knowing glances and suggested we start off at Gap. “Look, Mom, there’s a sale! Maybe you can get some new shorts?” I sensed a layer in that remark so I asked, “What’s wrong with the shorts I have on?”
“Besides everything?” they answered in tandem and burst out laughing.
Okay, it’s official. My daughters think I need fashion help. The girls who once looked to me for confirmation that they looked pretty are now talking about my outfits behind my back. We made a beeline for Gap and they collected a pile of things for me to try on. The first order of business, apparently, was new shorts to replace my baggy, knee length, Old Navy cargo shorts circa 2005. They had me try on a pair of cut off jean shorts, the kind I used to dub “Daisy Dukes” because they were so short-short and frayed. I pulled them on and scrunched up my face at my reflection.
“Mom! You look awesome! Much better. Get those, for sure.” Both of their blond heads bobbed approval.
Good Lord, I was stuck. I can’t complain that middle-aged thighs do not need to be showcased. I cannot mention that the length of the shorts (or lack thereof) hit my thighs at a most unflattering point. I cannot mention that just because they sell your size in a particular style, does not necessarily mean you should wear it. I just sighed and bought the damn shorts (which, by the way, they made me change into the next time we were in a dressing room). For the rest of the day, I shyly yanked them down every time I caught my reflection in a store window.
I relayed the story at my running group the next morning, to many chuckles. I also wanted to clarify so that if they saw me running around town looking like a Nair ad (we-wear-short-shorts—remember that song? If you do, you are also too old for the shorts. Sorry.) That it was not my idea, and I did not think I looked hot. I took those shorts for the team, people. I can’t tell my gorgeous girls, who are still blissfully living life relatively free of weird body issues, that middle-aged thighs should be politely shrouded, or that my strong runner thighs might warrant longer shorts.
The day got more uncomfortable than my wedging shorts.
“What are the weird dots that people get on their legs and stuff, Mom?” one of my girls asks me.
Hmmm, dots? “Like, freckles?” I ask, half-listening while window shopping.
“No, like little dimple-holes.”
Oh, dear God. The curse and abomination of women everywhere? “You mean cellulite?” I ask, nonchalantly.
“Yes! That’s it! Satellite!”
I smirk and don’t correct her. And I yank my shorts with great gusto.
Why are they asking this? Is my satellite showing in these shorts? I swallow a giant lump of paranoia and channel my inner grown up. “Why are you asking about cell…er…satellite, honey?” I ask sweetly.
“Oh, because I saw a lady at the beach with it, and I wonder if you get it because you don’t use sunscreen?”
Ahhh. “You should always wear sunscreen, sweets. You know that.”
“Yeah. I know. You wanna getta ice cream cone?” I nod, and they take off to look at flavors.
I order a double scoop. I want everyone to see me eat it, in my short shorts, wee-wee-wee all the way home.