My name is Christopher Tuazon, and I wear short shorts.

It is currently eighty-five degrees outside of this building, though it runs upwards of ninety-one by most noons.  In my part of the earth, there is nothing pleasant about being outside for any part of the day.  Steam fogs your glasses the moment you leave your air-conditioned refuges, and before long the pools of sweat from your chest and underarms form a salty Rorschach pattern.  Out here, at this part of the year, it’s simple necessity to throw pairs of shorts in the wardrobe rotation, so I’ve recently done so.  But in doing this I have invited questions about suitability and masculinity.  So I’d like the opportunity to explain why I’m a short short man.

“No thanks, dude”

I coached cross country for a time, and in the district rulebook every team had to adhere to a uniform which all runners must obey, or face disqualification.  Since my school only ordered the tops, I had to acquire a team set of shorts.  It was a no-brainer in my head; in terms of aerodynamics and Prefontainesque greatness, throwback shorts with a three-inch inseam were the obvious choice.  This was not such the case for my boys team, many of which insisted to save leg and face with a pair of Under Armour tights underneath.

It was an extreme example, but same principle applies.  Like my CC boys,  shorts are identified as “short” if the kneecaps shine in raw sunlight.  Aside from their return in recent magazine spreads, the dominant attitude on shorter cuts is still of ridicule and embarrassment.  It’s cargo shorts or bust if you want to keep a firm grip on your manhood.

Not quite a rabbit in a hat with a bat, but . . .

As a reasonably mature adult I’m still a little sensitive about my height.  Watching your ninth grade class go from “50% taller than me” to 70% in one school year kinda does that to you.  These days, I’ve gotten used to the physique I was born with, but it has nevertheless presented sartorial challenges; in an arena where proper fit and proportion are champions, shorter menswear enthusiasts walk a margin of error in which defeat is much more common.  Luckily, we can employ the magic of illusion to add height.  This includes a higher hem on shorts, adding length to the torso, as you can see above.

Not bad, right?  Speaking of which . . .

  They just feel right

A perfect shirt is a true gift: sleeves just long enough to peek underneath the suit jacket, appropriately slim to prevent billowing, and a collar stout enough to complete an outfit with or without a necktie.  When an item of clothing performs its functions, it feels great, makes you feel great, and becomes a valuable commodity for your wardrobe; such is the case for proper-length shorts.  When I choose to wear shorts it’s because I intend to run and tumble a bit through a day that would turn my legs into Dagobah if I trapped them in pants.  There’s also something restrictive about shorts that hang and hit the knee; it’s akin to shimmying badly rolled-up sleeves to prevent getting caught at the elbow .  You’re wearing shorts, after all; if they go past halfway down the leg, are you sure you don’t actually want to wear trousers instead?

And it works

I don’t know about the origin exactly, but I know the silent rule: no shorts to work.  Perhaps it takes away from the seriousness of he workplace, in the same vein that “Casual Friday” has become an excuse to give up once a week.  It could also be to not confuse oneself for a UPS deliveryman.  But I personally don’t understand the unanimous negativity.  I think it’s more than achievable to look professional in shorts – yes, do this and all things and good taste, know when it’s appropriate, and you’ll be fine.

I recently made an announcement at a staff meeting.  After a few small items of business, I stood up proudly and proclaimed, “And just to be clear, if you gentlemen didn’t think that it was ok to wear shorts to work, I’m here to tell you that it is.”

Other notes: