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It’s the dead of summer, which means it’s time to slather some oil on those muscled hot dogs of yours and give the crowds of rubbernecking tourists a feast to rival the actual dogs they’ll guzzle at Nathan’s Famous. It’s high time we give a little taste of seasonal freedom to our knees, our shins, those shining white inner thighs so pale that even the girl from The Grudge scampers away screaming. And if you’re in New York—or any other state that experiences seasons (not a word from the Californians)—you’ve got shockingly few days left until it’s time to break out the parka you just vacuum sealed and shoved under your bed. In other words, let them wear shorts.
But, as is customary in a country where expensive goods are often mistaken for inherently tasteful, many celebrities appear to have joined a horrifying shorts cult, donning hideous leg garments instead of our tried-and-true Levi’s. Bella Hadid was recently seen in Cannes wearing shorts that may or may not have been inflated with a tire pump and then pulled down to the tippity top of her pubes. Cottagecore Barbie Taylor Swift has every stylist, fashion house, and atelier designer digging their fingernails into her probably nice oak doors, but she opted for a pair that have an uncanny familiarity to a pair of Jamboree shorts I wore when I was 6. And Meghan Markle, a duchess for fuck’s sake, sported a pair of culottes that extended so high up her torso I feared she was hiding a broken rib. I am once again wondering if the celebrities are OK.
Perhaps the Rich People have a point, though. The question of what makes a good pair of shorts is worthy of a philosophical debate. At what point do shorts become pants? Just below the knee? Mid-thigh? And at what point do they become underwear? Above the hip? When the labia majora peeks out? I don’t have the answer, but I do have the power of negation: I can certainly tell which thigh-huggers are not worthy of existence, and so I will do exactly that.
Sun’s out, knees out…at your own risk.
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