My relationship with the booty short can be equated with my sentiments towards a subway rider peering over my shoulder whilst I skim through my instagram feed — On one hand I’m irritated with them but on the other hand I’m guilty of the same offense. I bought a pair my senior year of high school and wore them to Aruba with the unsubstantiated notion that they were “in style.” If the side boob could turn into a fashion statement, I figured that butt cheeks might follow suit. They never did.
I made the wise decision to throw them out a couple of years ago when I finally came to terms with the fact that they are not really the children of mom shorts like I led myself to believe all these years; they both aren’t really cut from the same cloth. (Pun intended). Rather they are the children of underwear, a flimsy separate entity made to cover only part of your butt cheeks.
The cheeky behavior of the booty short (underwear?) can sneak up on you when you least expect it, leaving you with a wedgie and a hand up the crack of your ass, tugging till the cows come home. But when the cows never come home, you may want to rid of them like I did with a millennial salute—BYE FELICIA—and with the promise to never relapse and buy a pair again.
Unfortunately I didn’t keep my promise. In a series of unintentional events I bought a pair of booty shorts (Underwear?) from H & M this past spring with the sale grubber incentive that they were 15 dollars with an added 10 % off coupon. I curtsied, squatted and pranced around in the dressing room. I did a 360 turn and looked my butt straight in its non existent eyes as if to say, “ Promise me you’re not a booty short. Promise me you won’t betray me.” And because shorts don’t talk, I solidified its promise by checking the seam of its leg. And indeed, it did cover my butt cheeks.
Flash forward a couple of months and I’m ready to wear this baby out on a hot summer day. Down 34th street I go running an errand for my internship. And there I am with one hand holding Dior and the other grabbing the fabric situated between my butt crack. The cheeks were out; the homeless men were cat calling. It was all very lovely.
As a girl who wears clothes—like I assume most girls do—I’ve come to realize there is always going to come a time when you feel uncomfortable with what you’re wearing. The wardrobe malfunction is more common than the common cold. I’ve seen more New Yorkers walking around with nip slips and see through dresses than I have seen walking around with stuffy noses and nasally voices. Instead of yelling at my shorts for their betrayal—partially because they can’t respond but more importantly because there was nothing that could be done at that point—I let myself be. The cure for the common cold is a Kleenex tissue and a few words of sympathy. The cure for an incidental booty shorts scenario? Flash that Dior bag and hope everyone thinks it’s yours.