Sugar and Spice … The Sisterhood of the Travelling Shorts

Martha’s the smallest amongst us.

Not thin, but with the kind of toned thick thighs and flat stomach that come from an incredible combination of great genes and hours upon hours spent running mind clear and spirit light on treadmills.

Whitney’s short, with curves as generous as her beauty.

Me? I’m the tall one. Solid. The kind of big and bold I had to grow into.

We’re an odd trio. Not in terms of looks or even personality but because we’re from completely different pasts but somehow came together to form a group that doesn’t meet up all that often, but when we do, it’s magic.

It’s the kind of hot December in Windhoek always is and Martha strolls in wearing the shorts.

I don’t even spare them half a glance, to be honest, but she looks great in the kind of effortless “oh, this? I just threw it on” way she seems to nail often.

It’s the first official day of my ‘leave’ – which is more a few days between Christmas and getting my *ss back to work without really feeling like I had much of a break – and I want alcohol. Copious amounts of it.

It’s been one hell of a year.

The afternoon sees us sipping champagne courtesy of Marth, me sipping vodka courtesy of my December bonus, and us all snacking and relaxing courtesy of Whitney and her beautiful flat.

We talk, we laugh, we bemoan men and work and sh*tty people; I’m pretty sure I cry at some point; we affirm each other, we voice hopes for the future, I get a bit of a scolding, and by the time bottles have been emptied and the mood has lightened again, I tell Martha to take her shorts off.

Not in the way young women in terrible 90s storyline porn often do, but because I’m trying to prove a point.

I want to show her that she’s much smaller than I am which seems blatantly obvious to me but she maintains that I’m exaggerating.

With a bit of coaxing in the form of an insistent open palm, the shorts slide down her thighs and are half-way up mine when my face becomes incredulous and Martha’s triumphant.

Not only do they slide up my thighs but they cover my bum and fit quite comfortably.

I can hardly believe it.

Martha might have done a victory dance in her underwear.

Whitney looked on from across the kitchen, bemused.

But I don’t want to admit defeat.

The shorts are off and thrust at Whitney before she can even think to protest and by the time she slides them on to fit perfectly too, I’m five-to pinching myself to make sure I haven’t drifted into a tipsy nap and started dreaming of magic shorts shared between magic women.

I’m not dreaming.

The shorts, just like the friendship and the love in the room that December afternoon, are real.

They may not come out often and while we might not each have an adventure in them like in the movie, the shorts are one of those things that make me think back, chuckle and share an inside joke with the women I consider my tribe.

Kind of like “guys. What is a man?!”

Man… You just had to be there.

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