Everyone has their kryptonite: Superman had…well, kryptonite; Achilles had his heel; and for me, it’s shorts. I remember standing on the field during camp on a, particularly, sticky August day. Everyone around me was dressed in the ubiquitous uniform of denim shorts and a tank top, but I stood there in my dark-wash jeans, drenched in sweat, swearing that I was perfectly comfortable. Thanks to some harsh body-bashing brainwashing I had experienced over the years, I felt that my chubby legs were something to be ashamed of, something to keep covered up. I carried those body issues with me into adulthood, until one day I realized: screw it. I refuse to allow my hang-ups to prevent me from wearing what I want — especially those pieces that are generally awesome.
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