My new shorts were bright orange denim, with green daisies on the back pockets. I wriggled my 15-year-old skin into them and knew I looked hip.

There was a baseball game that afternoon at the City Park. I was ready to strut my stuff.

“I’ll be home later.” I tossed the sentence toward the living room on my way out. Mom was crocheting another throw in dull, thick colors.

“Oh, Robin. I think those bottoms are a little too short, honey.” Her ‘out of it’ hands manipulated yarn in maddening rhythm as she talked.

I drew in an impatient dose of air and glared at her with slitted, blue-shadowed eyelids.

“They’re HOTPANTS, Mother.” (huff) “EVERYBODY wears them.” (huff)

She didn’t approve; I didn’t care. I was a 60s woman, and she was old. I galloped down the porch steps and clomped onto the sidewalk in my Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals (guaranteed to make your legs shapelier with every step.)

For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard