That is, if I were open to the idea of wearing shorts at all. Which, to be honest, I don’t think I ever will be. Because I’ve tried over and over, and, skin brushing, squats, and self-tanner aside, the results always seem to be the same. In fact, every year for the past 15, I’ve succumbed to buying a new pair of shorts. The concept still appeals to me; the coolness appeals to me, as does the idea of exposing my practically translucent leg skin to real summer sunshine. These dream shorts are always the same: barely grazing the knee with graceful pleats and fabric that smacks of really expensive tuxedo trousers. Every year, I tell myself I will wear them with a lacy sandal, try them out at the office reserved for a day that is insufferably hot and low on the priority-meeting scale. I can do it. I can be like everyone else and be cool, not pretending the linen culottes I’m wearing every day are just as good as your crisp, ventilated cargo shorts. (They’re not.) Wear shorts! You can do it!

And then I put them on and try to leave the house, and I just can’t. I think I look ridiculous.

Or do I? The things we believe, that we've been telling ourselves from such a tender age, we know so well how toxic those memories are and how deeply bound they are to our experiences, our choices, our secret fixations. Even in my 40s, it seems impossible to let this particular hang-up go. My mum never wiggled her way into a too-small sequin bodysuit. And I doubt she ever gives a second thought to whether people are looking at her in the grocery store while she cruises the aisles wearing her favourite basketball shorts. Nor should she. I guess I shouldn't, either; I consider myself pretty liberally minded when it comes to clothes — and almost anything.

But shorts? Fuck no.