Short Jorts, Tank Tops And Other Horror Stories

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Complex Original

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When I was growing up, summer was hands down the best time of the year for me—there was no school, I went swimming every day, all of my Jewish friends went to camp and came back with highly informative stories about getting to second base in the woods with someone named Aviva. I was living what I affectionately refer to as “the motherfucking life.”

And then I graduated college and entered the workforce and those rose colored glasses of summers past were sucker punched off my face, Piggy-in-Lord-of-the-Flies-style. Suddenly June, July and August were just like every other month, but with rolling blackouts.

And it was through that glass half empty reality lens that I also realized that summer brings out the most disgusting in people, from a sartorial perspective, too.

I get it: freed from the oppressive down shackles of winter dressing, and taking a preemptive strike against the ever present threat of perspiration, people want to wear as little as possible when the temperature rises past 85. But nothing makes me long for a comfortable wool barrier between me and the rest of humanity like a barrage of scaly toes hanging off the side of flip flops, tank tops revealing caked on deodorant and shorts so short that your pubes are being introduced to society like we’re at a Short and Curly Debutante Ball.

Do you know what will fuck up your day like nothing else? Unsolicited scrotum.

This point was driven home recently when a man on my own block in Soho bent over to pick up his keys—which he did twice—and I actually saw his scrotum. It just popped out of his shorts to say hello and mock me like a terrifying, fleshy Whack-a-Mole game. Do you know what will fuck up your day like nothing else? Unsolicited scrotum. Trust me, I almost started crying on the spot and I haven’t cried since 1992.

I’m all for positive body image and embracing your physical self and moving to a clothing optional commune in San Francisco, but that doesn’t mean I want to see your shit hanging out in line at the bodega. So, until scientists invent personal temperature controlled transport walking bubbles—which, by the way, get on it, Science—something’s got to give. And I’m not talking about the frayed spaghetti straps on your homemade tank top.

I don’t know when this happened and it became acceptable to gallivant around town in various states of undress like we’re in Ibiza or Daytona Beach. And who's responsible for inspiring this? Do you think Don Draper would eat in a restaurant in an extra deep V? Would Steve McQueen go to the mall in a side-boob baring cut off concert tee? Would my personal style icon Theo Huxtable hang out at the bar in short jorts? Maybe, but it was the 80’s and people had different values then. So what’s your excuse?

My point is this: yes, it’s hot in the summer in the city. But, it’s also hot in hell. And that’s exactly where you’ll be going if you ever think of wearing anything in public that bares your ball sack.

Steve Dool is a writer based in New York City. Follow him on Twitter.

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