(and their relative unimportance in the company of oneself)
I like trousers, as a rule. A combination of desiring to be practically attired and bowing to gender norms that I’m much less comfortable crossing than I think I am has left me wearing warm, loose tracksuits for the entirety of the year. And, for the most part, they work perfectly (ahem) but I’m realising a drawback to these most wonderful of clothing items: in Summer, they’re bloody hot.
I’ve not discovered this before, living in a house with large openable windows instead of my single room with one suicide-proof window that only opens far enough to allow a gnat’s fart to fit through, but now that I have it’s pissing me off. And it’s not just tracksuits! I’ve tried on my pair of designated ‘adult’ trousers, and they’re too warm too, which makes me think that any item of clothing that reaches my ankles will be too hot for this frakking room.
Shorts, you say, may be the answer to keep myself cool and protect that most fragile of things, my masculinity, but I’m not really a fan of shorts. They’re useful when playing sports, sure, but using them exclusively for sports has created a link in my mind that whenever I’m waring my shorts, I ought to be running or playing handball, instead of looking for an even more lazily comfortable position to be lying in bed playing Football Manager in.
And, as hinted at by that Buzzfeed article, I (along with pretty much every other cis man on the planet) am still afraid of femininity, subconsciously linking it with weakness and an obsession with material trinketry, to suck it up and buy a skirt. Also, that would require shaving my legs, because I’m not a fan of leg hair, and that would do nothing to protect that already-cracked façade of masculinity.
Therefore, I have stumbled across a solution that manages to keep my masculinity intact, at the mere expense of looking like an overgrown man-baby with no comprehension of the importance of clothes: I sit around in my underwear. This way, my legs are free and cool, and I don’t need to buy any additional clothing. The unshaved-legs problem still exists, and sometimes I will peer under my desk to behold a pair of patchily-haired appendages that I-wouldn’t-want-to-sleep-with-in-a-million-years-so-why-should-someone-else-be-subjected-to-that-kind-of-torture, but this is a compromise that works, at least for the time being.
And if you’re still not convinced that I’m not talking out of may arse, at least I’ve moved on from writing these things naked.