Monday Memoirs: My sweet new shorts

Travis says Mondays are for stories.

Here goes:

I take you back to the scene of one of my most traumatic social fashion fopas.
It was sixth grade year.
Bermuda shorts were all the rage.

Remember those?

Flowery beach shorts that went knee length.
In fact, on this particular day in question, everybody who was anybody (or just people who wanted to be SOMEBODY, like myself), were supposed to wear their Bermuda shorts to school.

Unfortunately, I didn’t own any Bermuda shorts. My parents weren’t rich enough to afford such luxuries.
It was considered a blessing, if I was able to have a new pair of Pro Wings for the first day of school.
This year, my Pro Wings were all black. (This was back when the only people besides Pro Basketball players wearing black shoes were policemen.)

However, my loving mother was sympathetic to my plight.
I had explained to her the absolute necessity for me to show up to school wearing said style shorts.
She found it in her heart to make a last minute dash to the store, in hopes of saving my social standing.

I am pretty sure she sold a kidney on the way, in order to get the funds.

Turns out, there had evidently been a rush on Bermuda shorts.
The store only had one style left. (NOW, the reason for this seems obvious).

She came back with her find, triumphant that the mission had been a success.
I, naively thankful just to have a pair of shorts to wear, never gave it much thought.
I proudly put on my new shorts, and headed off to school, sure I was destined to fit in.
My only concern was that they didn’t seem to go with my black shoes.

I have kindly taken the liberty…

**YES, VIRGINIA! THEY DID HAVE PURPLE AND WHITE VERTICAL STRIPES**

Immediately upon entering the building, I began getting heckled and harassed.

“Nice shorts, BOZO!”
“What are you wearing?”
“Where can I get some clown pants like that?”

I was devastated. I was a social pariah. I wanted to cry.

I had to make it stop!

One of my good friends, and one of the only people not making fun of me, let me borrow a pair of grey sweatpants he had in his locker.
Unfortunately, all this did was create a mystery for the kids who had heard about my shorts, but hadn’t seen them for themselves.

“What happen to yours shorts?”

“Why’d you change out of your clown pants?”

“Why are you wearing sweatpants that say 'Juicy' on the butt?”

Ok, that last one was a lie.

They didn’t have those back then.

But the shorts were real.

And they never saw the light of day again.

My mom’s poor kidney.