home

I have these shorts that look like a diaper. Like an old stretched out green near-linen diaper. They’re kind of cute, as you can imagine. They’re loose in the crotch, and if I wore them descending a staircase, my vagina would easily be seen in full from most angles. They are most comfortable sans underwear. As are most things. Except leggings. Y’all are fucking crazy going all free the juices on that stretched polyester kissing every crevice of your labia. Hats of to you, though. You’re stronger than I am. 

I’m horrified typing this because I ‘m sure at some point I’ve worn them around my partner’s family. Poor judgement and, now, latent humiliation.

These shorts are my favorite thing right now, despite their lack of integrity. I bought them on a whim from a sample sale. They’re an expensive brand I’ve been following; the sample was dirt cheap, and the only chance at me having the label in my closet. (In honest, not really. I could afford their other stuff. But that would involve me knowing my bra size which I simply do not because I don’t wear them despite the fact that sometimes I am insecure about my soft nipples in public. phew. put that one out there.) I found out why they were disproportionately affordable shortly upon their arrival. That, or they’re made for women who’s outie labia is like seven inches and needs no side coverage, but is that just a penis at that point? If you’re got enough to dangle, perhaps your reproductive parts are external. Nah. You probably still bleed those little slurpy jellyfish clots at least once every month and a half to remind you of all the internal goodies you have, too.

Anyhow, the shorts are also a reminder of when I ruined my chance at working for the company. I think. At the very least, I embarrassed myself enough to resign from reaching out to them again. The stupid shit is that all I did was word vomit about my financial needs from the role. I think they saw it as demanding. Which is unfortunate, because I love a good conversation about salary transparency. It feels we, women, are healing our bridge with gender roles and social tax when we do. 

I would wear them around my house with five female roommates whom I felt comfortable with and still felt goofy as hell. It’s like they take points off my IQ when I wear them. Powerful bastards. They look stupid and are barely accomplishing their purpose. I would say I’m not embarrassed of them, but I am. That doesn’t keep me from wearing them, loves. I still swipe off my jeans after work and beeline it to their faded, milky green cloth rolled up and shoved near my socks from the day before. 

These shorts are still pretty much my favorite thing in my closet — especially when I think I have a yeast infection or feel fat. Both of which scenarios are frequent. Sometimes I consider slicing out the crotch. Let’s be honest, it’s a sad excuse for a loin cloth anyway. Don’t get it twisted, I’ll still wear the hell out of that skirt.