those days are gone

It's with a heavy heart that I accept a sad truth this week: I'll never be able to wear my super hot, super short denim shorts that defined my late teens and early 20s again.  Those days are gone.  Even if I manage to somehow shrink my hips enough to squeeze these shorts over them once more, there's that niggling realization that I'm on the wrong side of 20 so they may no longer be an appropriate dress choice.  And I'm really bummed about that.

I'm bummed because I'm not sure I'm ready to accept my age or what never fitting these shorts again means. I don't think I'm ready to give up on the chance to relive those super fun, super wild, out-of-control, impulsive years that I wore them, when nothing made sense and everything was a spontaneous ride with no pre-planned destination.  The years I spent in these shorts were those of growth: that musically took me from angry rock to upbeat electronics and then mellow indie and reflective ballads; and emotionally from throwing my heart at the first attractive guy that liked me to locking that same heart away in a chest bound by chains so tight, Houdini himself would have struggled to open it.

I wore these shorts as I transitioned from wine spritzers to beer, to real wine and then, when I could finally afford to thanks to a real job, cocktails.  Through the years of camping and bonfires, when my friends and I would laugh at retold stories or get lost in deep meditation as one of them strummed a guitar.  The years of blissful sunny days, cruising with the windows down and hair billowing out, screaming Pussycat Dolls songs the top of our lungs.  The carefree summers when days were spent sun-baking and nights were danced away because we had nowhere to be in the morning.  The years I wore these shorts were the years of karaoke sing-offs, public displays of affection, nudie runs, pranks and complete and unabashed freedom ... Though at times I cried in these tiny shorts, I always took comfort in knowing that it was my decisions that caused those tears to flow and that I alone would fix the issues.  Or perhaps with the help of my friends who were just as reckless and whose shorts were just as short.

Those years really are gone.  That part of my life ended.  I smile sadly to myself now here in this office in a still foreign city, one dog asleep on my lap - the other on the floor beside me, a pile of bills I paid yesterday that I need to stamp and file and a clock creeping onward to lunchtime when I will need make a meal for Will and finish the final load of washing before the weekend.  It seems strange to think that those tumultuous years lead to this place of stability and peace.  And that I spent my morning reliving them because of a ritual as mundane as packing away my winter clothes and replacing them with summer ones.

This ritual is the usual cause of my donation piles, when I stumble across those 'what was I thinking?' fashion choices from the previous season that will never be cool again and ruthlessly cull them from my wardrobe. When I came across these tiny little shorts (that have long since been nothing more than a weight motivating tool) they that acted like a portkey (Harry Potter reference) to my past and had me sitting on the floor in my wardrobe watching a reel of memories that included places, faces and many other 'what was I thinking' scenarios that I wish I could cull from my life.  The biggest is my own self-perception.  What was I thinking calling myself fat or being self-conscious about anything?  No matter what bodily issues I convinced myself of having back then, these days I'm a mess in comparison.  My stomach is no longer THAT toned and I for sure don't look THAT great in a bikini.  Why couldn't I see how amazing my legs were until these shorts no longer fit?  I wasted time feeling bad while wearing these tiny shorts!  Shorts I would give anything to simply zip up again!

Now, here in this office and place of life, I should know better than to waste more time feeling bad about shorts not fitting.  My waist may be 28 inches instead of 25 but someday that same waist might be 30 inches and I'll feel silly in retrospect again at the moments I'm wasting here.  The days of fitting these shorts may be over but my life doesn't have to be.  I'm not quite finished with those reckless, impulsive days yet.  Nor am I done music festivals, hangovers or falling asleep on the cool sand by the seashore - even if my new shorts have to be a little longer.