Thigh-high shorts are all the rage right now, best demonstrated by Hollywood actor Alexander Skarsgård. But can a normal 5’7 man pull them off?
It’s thigh-guy summer. That seems to be something of a consensus in fashion circles at the moment, with publication after publication insisting that short shorts are all the rage. Speedos are flying off shelves, catwalks are awash with micro-shorts, and style-conscious men are competing for the shortest inseam.
The trend was solidified and best demonstrated by Murderbot star Alexander Skarsgård appearing on the daytime TV show Lorraine the other week in a pair of checked short-shorts, declaring, “I wanted to be sexy today.” The internet got in rather a fluster, suggesting he got what he wanted.
He looked great, because he’s famously handsome actor Alexander Skarsgård, a six-foot-five Swede sculpted by the gods themselves, who models for Calvin Klein when not starring in films about Tarzan. Something working on him, or fellow hotpanted Hollywood hunks Paul Mescal, Donald Glover or Harry Styles, is no guarantee it will work on, say, a 5’7 children’s author who only gets new clothes at Christmas.
But it seemed worth exploring: was there a thigh guy within me screaming to get out? Can a man be too short for short shorts?
My short shorts show up from Amazon at a fraction of the cost of Skarsgård’s high-fashion pair and are, I can confidently say, the shortest shorts I’ve ever sported, boasting a three-inch inseam.
I grew up in the era of ridiculously giant shorts that extended below the knee, absurd garments made out of enough fabric to make a hot-air balloon. We’d occasionally pair them with enormous heavy wallet chains, and by wearing them almost entirely below the buttocks, could guarantee they’d always be on the brink of falling down. If you tried running in them, they’d drop to your ankles and you’d fall over. It was a beautiful time to be young, extremely stupid and weighed down by denim. These shorts feel like a tiny maiden’s delicate handkerchief in comparison.
There’s immediately a lot more thigh on show than I’m used to. It’s not muscular or contoured or anything, it’s just a surprising expanse of blank, unremarkable meat. A piece of A3 paper’s worth of off-white hairy flesh on each leg that hasn’t had the sun on it for decades. Moles only my nearest and dearest have seen. A good square metre of me that’s never been fully outdoors. In sunscreen alone, these shorts are going to bankrupt me.
They’re comfy though, so flimsy as to be nearly weightless, and they let air circulate where air doesn’t always circulate. And by god, I can lift my legs high, untethered by anything but my ageing tendons. Strutting around outside, I feel like I’m just in my pants. Not in a sexy way though, more of a forgetful one, like when a middle-aged chief executive loses his mind and turns up to a meeting with no trousers on.
Pants are an issue in another way as well, namely that my underwear of choice, a sensible boxer brief, is in some places less short than these shorts. It’s a bit of a predicament – I don’t know how free I really am to enjoy my newly increased range of movement without ending up on some kind of terrible list.
Skarsgård took a high-fashion approach to the lower reaches of his body, pairing shiny patent leather loafers with expensive woolen socks pulled up close to the knee. Again, this looks good on him due to the old Swedish demi-god genes. The closest I can manage with what’s to hand – some grotty old grey socks and past-their-best boots – feel more like crap Lara Croft cosplay than a fashion statement.
The shorts do feel like some kind of statement though, and that’s the element – risk of indecent exposure aside – that gives me pause. Buying and wearing a garment specifically described as shorter than most shorts feels as though it comes with the implicit idea that I think I look good, that I think my thighs deserve to be on show.
I have no strong feelings one way or the other about my thighs, and am not sure I’ve ever actually thought about them until forced to by these shorts. I’m neither ashamed nor proud of them, and am totally ambivalent. They’re just part of what attaches my feet to the rest of me.
No, the thing that concerns me isn’t people seeing my thighs. It’s people thinking I want them to see my thighs. That, as an idea, is mortifying. But given the clear lack of thought that goes into everything else I wear, the endlessly samey smudges of navy and black that is the uniform of the lame middle-aged suburban dad, a conscious decision to rock short shorts feels borderline aggressive. “Hey, look at this weird new part of me!” it seems to scream, an invitation nobody asked for and they certainly don’t want to RSVP to.
It’s a shame really. If this was how shorts were by default, great, I’d wear the hell out of them. They’re light, airy, freeing and comfortable. That said, even if these were the norm, they wouldn’t be entirely without problems: as soon as you put anything in the pockets, they look silly, while the monstrous jorts of my teenage years could easily hold four cans of lager without looking any more stupid than they did with empty pockets.
(My other issue with the short shorts is that, and there’s no dignified way of saying this, I feel a reasonable amount of men who wore them would opt for a pulling-to-the-side approach to using the toilet. That’s just not cricket.)
I’m no style icon or provocateur. I’m a tired, dull man who wants an easy life — I’ll leave the hot pants to the hot chaps. Unless Hollywood comes calling, or I grow nine inches taller, develop incredibly well-defined quads and suddenly start looking after my appearance in other ways, it’s back to dadcore knee-lengths for me.
In public, anyway. Behind closed doors, though, I’m letting my thighs embrace their newfound freedom and my backside enjoy a pleasant summer breeze. Life, after all, is too short.
