Confessions of an 80s Something: Biker Shorts, Not Just for Bikers Anymore

Biker shorts came into my life at about the same time I was going into Maxwell's to read the dirty keychains and Spencer's to look at the cards with fat women in lingerie and really feeling like I was getting away with something. Basically the point in my life where I spent all my time at the mall and all my money on decorative soaps from Crabtree & Evelyn. I was totally rad.

It happened on accident really. I'd been longing for a bout with the bikers for some time, but, since I was a chubby kid, I never had mustered enough courage for them. Sure, I had the courage to drop pennies off the balcony of the food court to determine who below was Jewish (in my defense, I thought it was a legitimate test of faith, like a commandment "Waste not, want not," and not a statement about their stereotyped frugality), but facing the world with lycra sealing my thighs was not something I could do. I opted for leggings.

My mom helped me stay hip to fashion despite my assignment to the Huskies section by pairing my leggings with one of those long, decorative dress shirts. By decorative dress shirts, I mean, random color pairings in a geometrical vomit on a cloak of cotton that went to the mid-thigh. I think you were supposed to use the shirt side-tie clip with these shirts, but I needed the length to cover my chunky butt. Leiah was the queen of the side-tie clip because she's had a great ass since diapers. My premiere shirt was yellow, that god awful yellow that gives you a headache, is usually confined to socks and was born out of the 80's quest for tacky, with black polka dots on it. I was so sexy heads would spin, and I was only 8 years old. Those Jews would certainly skip over the pennies I dropped when they caught a glimpse of me in my new threads.

Or if they caught a glimpse of my first run in with the biker shorts. Having found a fashion that didn't restrict my body anymore, I was waiting outside of the Baskin Robbins counter when a man in his grey hair days came into the mall and stepped into the Baskin Robbins line wearing white biker shorts and no top. It's quite possible he had a top on, but since my young mind couldn't get over the ass hair I could see through his white biker shorts, I failed to remember if he had a shirt on. As he turned to walk toward the ice cream cone pick-up station, I got the frontal. It was my first and closest exposure to male genitalia in my life, and I was horrified. All balled up and lumpy, like a dying rat wadded up and tucked in his crotch. The vision was enough to make me barf, but when he actually set his manhood on the counter while waiting for the girl to give him his cone... gag me with a credit card and put me on lay-away. I backed away, either because my mom really was there telling me he was a pervert and to get away from him or because her good judgment had become a permanent voice in my head.

I retreated to the safety of Maxwell's, but now the keychain sporting "Grody to the Max" had newfound meaning.

Next up... a secret relationship with Strawberry Shortcake.