When we first met, I was a young boy. My parents must have bought them for me. I figure they were trendy at the time, worn by cast members of 90210 or Dawsons Creek. I don’t know, I was too young. Dark denim resting just below the knee. Not quite long shorts. But not quite short longs either. Jorts.
I figure I wore them to a birthday party at Timezone. I figure they were my compatriot that time I stood to sing Lose Yourself by Eminem at karaoke as a seven-year-old without knowing any of the words, frozen until that group of year 6 boys got up on stage while I slinked off to the back. I figure they were there for my first kiss and my first heartbreak (both at the hands of Courtney C).
And then one day, without much warning, we said goodbye, though I don’t think either of us knew how long it would be for.
Perhaps as we grow up, we wish to imprint ourselves upon the world in defiance of those who came before. The older I grew, the more I saw them as the quintessential piece of clothing for middle-aged men, whose uncouth, daggy demeanour was so irksome to me that I could never equate them with Cool.
Jorts became the antithesis of cool; they weren’t retrograde chic, just culturally obsolescent. I ran toward ankle-cut chinos and skinny jeans, and in the indie-sleaze aesthetic cultivated en masse in the early years of Instagram, those borderline offensive, below-the-knee acquaintances were worn exclusively in mock dress-ups to era-themed parties.
I suppose it was inevitable. This is the cycle of fashion after all, right? Whatever was once in vogue becomes cringe by virtue of its mainstream popularity, until enough time has passed for it to become unironically popular once more; a new generation, free of subjugation via parental exposure, can claim it as their own and make new avant garde acumen in the amnesiac memories of pop culture.
All of this is to say that early 2000s fashion has been revived by a generation who never had it ruined by the people they wished to differentiate themselves from – their parents.
So, feeling myself still close enough to the fringe of the generation who drives culture forward, I tried once more.
Last Saturday night at the Duke in Sydney’s inner west, next to a couple wearing silver choker chains and love heart sunglasses, who had studs in places that looked painful to stud, I stood in a pair of jorts that fell just below the knee. As we became reacquainted, I felt … conflicted.
I was like a walking Rubin’s vase, though instead of either a vase or twin profiles, what one saw was either someone up to date with the latest trends, or – and what I felt more likely – a backwards-hat-wearing Steve Buscemi, clinging to his youth, trying tragically to be cool again in defiance of his age.
This year I will turn 30. I am no longer the youngest in the room and the wedding invites are piling up. Life’s onward march has seen the poster of Uma Thurman replaced by a blue Matisse, and tea towels and coasters have become not only matters of interest, but gifts received with sincere joy.
I feel myself caught between the ecstasy of discovery that saturates life before a certain point, and the slow drone of reality that seems to come after. I am reconciling, begrudgingly, with the inevitability of ageing.
Is the supposedly gentle beauty of growing older merely that the rush of keeping up becomes too much? Is this what people often refer to as “slowing down”? Have I reached that point? I have found my social media playground (Instagram) and will not venture on to any of the new terrains. I have found the music I will enjoy for the rest of my life. I have joined the “too old” crowd for today’s youth radio station.
Contentment may feel like giving up in those first steps away from wild pursuit. The more those wild dreams are displaced by realities, the more I cling to the past and fight the ticking of the clock.
Until I stand, feeling like a fraud at a gig in Newtown, the denim hem of my jorts hitting below my knees when I would rather be wearing actual shorts or long pants that reach my ankles, and I am reminded both of the excitement that comes with being young, and the fact that I no longer have to try to be.
Brandon Jack is a Sydney-based writer and former Sydney Swans AFL footballer
Once culturally obsolescent, could jorts be back? I tried them again – and learned something about ageing
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23.01.2024
When we first met, I was a young boy. My parents must have bought them for me. I figure they were trendy at the time, worn by cast members of 90210 or Dawsons Creek. I don’t know, I was too young. Dark denim resting just below the knee. Not quite long shorts. But not quite short longs either. Jorts.
I figure I wore them to a birthday party at Timezone. I figure they were my compatriot that time I stood to sing Lose Yourself by Eminem at karaoke as a seven-year-old without knowing any of the words, frozen until that group of year 6 boys got up on stage while I slinked off to the back. I figure they were there for my first kiss and my first heartbreak (both at the hands of Courtney C).
And then one day, without much warning, we said goodbye, though I don’t think either of us knew how long it would be for.
Perhaps as we grow up, we wish to imprint ourselves upon the world in defiance of those who came before. The older I grew, the more I saw them as the quintessential piece of clothing for middle-aged men, whose uncouth, daggy demeanour was so irksome to me........
© The Guardian
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