My name is Christopher Tuazon, and I wear short shorts.

It is currently eighty-five degrees outside of this building, though it runs upwards of ninety-one by most noons.  In my part of the earth, there is nothing pleasant about being outside for any part of the day.  Steam fogs your glasses the moment you leave your air-conditioned refuges, and before long the pools of sweat from your chest and underarms form a salty Rorschach pattern.  Out here, at this part of the year, it’s simple necessity to throw pairs of shorts in the wardrobe rotation, so I’ve recently done so.  But in doing this I have invited questions about suitability and masculinity.  So I’d like the opportunity to explain why I’m a short short man.