As it is the first few weeks of January, expectations weather-wise for Illinois were cold, snowy, possibly rainy, definitely cold. Instead, it reached 60 degrees on Friday, 50 degrees on Saturday. As such, this meant two things to me: the first is that I could take my dog to Homer Lake, a special place for peaceful dog walks.
The second is that I was able to pull out one of my favorite clothing items: shorts. I love shorts, plain and simple. I like comfort, I like the air on the legs, I like the simplicity of shorts. If it was more widely acceptable in American culture, and of course designers made them, I would wear a skirt. Not a short skirt, knee-length, jersey material. Yes, the dhoti, sarong and kilt have begun the conversation, they will be my Rosa Parks, but the grand ole USA is not quite ready (I think?). I like pants too, but I really like shorts. But as you get older, the places and opportunities to wear shorts begin to decrease significantly. So any chance I have, I take.
Now wearing shorts in the winter often conjures up a certain image: the slacker. And this image is certainly warranted, as this image attests. I do not deny that there is some slackeristic characteristic to my love of shorts. But really it is another chance for me to tell the Man to go fuck himself.
This weather is supposed to last until Wednesday, and considering the 5 month winter we had in Illinois last year, I am taking full appreciation of this glorious opportunity.
Auditus out.
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