Lobster Shorts

The clothing on display in the store window on the small island appeared to be perfectly normal, no hint of anything amiss. What did I know about buying shorts in Greece? Nothing.

I had to play this one by ear. Stay cool. Waltz in. Pretend you know what you're doing. Upon examining the label, I learned the shorts were one-hundred percent cotton. Perfect start. I liked the price, too. Available in S, M, L and XL. That made sense to me, no confusing numbers to deal with.

So far, so good. I suspected I was on a roll, but before I could celebrate trouble set in. Unisex trouble.

From the metal display bin, I selected surfer shorts in red and khaki, size L, and headed in the direction of the fitting room the woman at the cash register pointed out to me. It was really nothing more than a cluttered-up closet with a tattered pull-curtain that had seen better days. Buying shorts couldn‘t be too complicated for a wise traveler such as myself.

I eyed my image through the dust in the cracked mirror. The elastic felt correct around my waist, but there appeared to be some extra baggage. Suddenly I looked seven months pregnant, although the front pouch was actually filled with nothing but air.

“Excuse me,“ I called out to the saleswoman. “Are you sure these red shorts are unisex? The sign in the window said unisex. So what‘s with this pouch-thing?“ I stepped out from behind the curtain.

The saleswoman was attentive and immediately came to my rescue. “Good fit, yes, yes,” she called out. “Nice color, misses. Pretty red, no?“

Did this woman not see the front panel flapping in the wind? I could have inflated a fair-sized beach ball and stuffed it in the shorts. “The colors are great,” I assured her. “No problem. Look, I understand about unisex men, but what do unisex women need with this extra front part?“ I asked her as I breezed over to her counter and modeled the offending shorts for her.

She didn't comprehend. She smiled her approval, oblivious to my unisex challenge.

I was starting to feel gender-challenged. I‘m the first to admit I‘ve worn some pretty dirty, mismatched, wrinkled, ripped or sandy clothing hopping around the Greek islands. I‘ve paraded around in broken sandals repaired with rubber bands and I‘ve worn my underpants inside-out on occasion. I‘ve gone four or five days wearing the same bra, unwashed. I wasn‘t looking to
enter any beauty contests on the island‘s beaches. But these shorts appeared likely to catch a gust of wind that would send me sailing above the trees like a kite. This was in the middle of Meltemi season, when the wind could easily top seven on the Beaufort scale. These shorts placed me in the danger zone.

Determined to win the battle of the bulge, I returned to the privacy of my dressing room and secured the curtain. Next I tried on the khaki shorts. Same result. The shorts were begging to be inflated with a bicycle pump.

Always inventive, I tried them on backwards, the rope-tie of the waist looking ridiculously out-of-place. My derriere was not the answer to this Greek fashion challenge.

I called out to the saleswoman to ask if the island had an alternations shop. I could have guessed her answer.

“No.”

Why would an island with no bank, no movie theater, no bus system and no international newsagent have a tailor shop? On my second day I‘d found out there was no optician either. I'd repaired my glasses myself when a screw fell out, using a paper clip.

Looking in the mirror again, I recalled how, on the ferry the previous week, several of my fellow passengers had looked incredulous and asked me, “You say you‘re going where?“

Unsure what to do, I put on the red shorts again. I could hear other tourists out there waiting for the dressing room. I stared at my unnaturally ballooned shape, trying to dream up a solution. Maybe I could stuff something in there to fill the empty cavity. What did I have with me that would fit? The space was too large for a bandana, too small for my backpack. I could think of nothing else, except maybe my lobster dinner from the previous night.

I‘d been in the stuffy closet for about 15 minutes and knew I had to rush out of there so someone else could have a chance to spend some vacation cash. In a last ditch attempt, I removed one of the rubber bands from my sandal, gathered a generous handful of excess red material from my front and affixed the rubber band, creating a faux penis. In female terms, I likened it to a pony tail growing from my front, pointing me in the right direction. Critically I examined my image in the mirror. Was this the way I wanted to spend the rest of my Greek vacation? Pony-tailed?

Why not? I'd triumphed over the battle of the flapping cotton bulge. Color me one intelligent, unisex-savvy traveler.

- by Roberta Beach Jacobson (laugh@otenet.gr)