I can feel his eyes on me as I dress and move towards the door.
“I thought for sure you’d do it today,” he says through sleepy whispers.
My gaze drops to the floor and I sigh, “Not today; maybe next week. I’m just not ready.”
He mumbles something and rolls over, not wanting to press the issue. How can I explain this to him in a way that he’ll understand?
I can tell by his reaction he thinks I’m a certifiable basket-case; a nut; a kook.
But he’s called me on it, and he’s right.
I’ve developed a phobia of sorts.
I just can’t bring myself to wear shorts this summer.
And today? We hit the 100-degree plus mark.
They taunt me from the drawer with their short legs and breezy leg openings. In their neatly organized piles sorted by color and fabric, they promise summer fun and cuteness.
One pair even has pleats that I carefully ironed last fall before putting them away for the last time.
But was it the last time for the season, or the last time at all?
I’ve always been a shorts-in-the-summer kind of gal, always made sure that I had all the basics covered: a white pair, a dressier pair, denim, khaki, and maybe a crazy plaid pair. Funky cut-offs for the beach; snazzy linen for brunch.
But plans like that were made with legs that I haven’t seen in a few years.
Not the legs I’m hobbling around on these days.
Lately I’ve become rather fond of knee-length short-type things (Bermudas?), skirts that end at the knee, and capri pants. All of those styles that cover that back part of the leg. You know, the longest part.
My ankles are rather nice, thank you very much.
As I get closer to that looming 50th birthday in a few years, I find that even though I’m comfortable with myself, I’m not so comfortable subjecting other people to the horrors that age is bestowing on me.
While my legs have always been pale, now that paleness is accentuated with purplish veins like the doodles of a distracted middle school girl.
In purple Sharpie pen.
Knees are never really sexy, but mine are now encased in baggy skin. Where exactly did the fat under there go?
It quite possibly migrated north and stopped for a layover on the shores of my belly button.
That explains a lot.
And don’t even start on the exercise thing. I suppose that exercise alone would transform my legs, make them shorts-worthy in no time. Or possibly make the veins even veiny-er.
If I were willing to commit to it.
I even went shopping, determined to find the pair of shorts that I could actually wear with confidence this summer.
If I thought my legs looked horrid at home, they looked like abstract art under the tragic fun-house lights in the dressing room at Kohl’s.
Do they do that on purpose? Is there a hidden camera show I’m not aware of that taunts middle-aged women with cute clothes, then lures them into a room with hideous lighting and crazy mirrors?
If there is, I was a contestant.
This battle isn’t over, but for now?