The Short Truth about My Long Struggle

Cargo shorts, circa 2005. Look at that 19-year-old me's teeny waist!

As I mentioned yesterday, the weather has turned freezing in my neck of the woods. That fact has hardened my resolve, once again, to move back to California. West coast is the best coast! What I am really trying to say here is that I hate cold weather.

My warm weather breeding mixed with my brazen ways make a sound excuse for my current wardrobe. I love men's cargo shorts, since they're long and balance out top-heavy me. I have recently been wearing very similar cargo shorts to the ones above, even when there has been snow falling from the sky. Friends and family have extolled my stamina against the cold: "I don't know how you do it—it's freezing out here!"

But I have a confession.

I am freezing. I am stinkin' cold. And I am extra ashamed.

The shorts I have been wearing are my husband's. I wear them because even the jeans I bought recently (that are a couple sizes bigger than I'd like) don't fit. My wardrobe on the bottom consists of those shorts and stretchy sweatpants; I wear the shorts out and about because even I can't stand the thought of public sweatpants. I would love to be wearing pants when it's cold outside. I want to be warm like the skinny people are.

I can brush off the short-wearing as an ill-advised battle against winter and leave it at that. I have practice at being uncomfortable, since I constantly wore a sweatshirt in the California heat when I first hit puberty. You wear what you have and you deal how you can.

And I deal through cargo shorts.