Quest for White Shorts

  

The Quest for White Shorts

“You need white shorts,” Pam declared, giving my outfit the kind of side-eye usually reserved for fashion emergencies.

Black yoga pants. Black shirt with white flowers. Yes, technically tropical. But also… “Woman in Black” vibes. On a sunny island, I looked less like vacation and more like I was attending a beach funeral.

So began The Quest.

Every souvenir shop had shorts—tie-dye, camouflage, hibiscus flowers the size of dinner plates. Twenty-four bucks a pair, and not a single plain white option in sight.

Then we learned the secret: the thrift store would be open Wednesday, 10 a.m. to noon. Two hours only. That was our window.

We rolled up in our golf cart right at opening. An elderly woman waved.
“Headed to the thrift store?” she asked.
“Why yes, we are,” I said, full of hope.
Pam asked, “Why such short hours?”
The woman smiled. “Well, our volunteers average eighty-five. Youngest is eighty. Oldest is ninety-five.”

Mystery solved.

Inside, the cashier chimed in cheerfully, “We live forever on this island.”
“Sign me up,” I said.

The place was laid out like a treasure hunt: collectibles, books, odd gadgets. An elderly man blocked the path, studying a toilet paper holder like it was modern art.
“In a hurry, are ya?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” (White shorts don’t wait.)

Finally, the clothing room. And there—MY shorts! Except… in another woman’s hands. My heart stopped. I casually grabbed a pair of gray ones, forcing a breezy, “Isn’t this just the best store?”

She glanced at me, glanced at the gray shorts, and—you guessed it—put the white ones back.
I swooped in like a hawk on a field mouse. Victory!

(Pro tip: my sister and I once got offered jobs in a shop for perfecting this trick. Pretend you don’t want it, someone else will. Reverse psychology shopping—it works every time.)

But wait—sandals! Western style, turquoise buttons, silver conchos, one-inch heel. I don’t do heels. But these weren’t walking shoes. These were “sit pretty in church shoes.” Had to have them.

Back to the shorts. Suddenly I saw more. Long ones, short ones, way-too-short ones. Arms overflowing, I hunted the dressing room.

A clerk pointed to a closet stuffed with boxes, curtained off with a scrap of fabric.
“This is the dressing room?” I whispered.
It was.

I squeezed in, elbow sticking out, praying no one urgently needed a box of Christmas lights. I set my new sandals outside the curtain as a territorial marker: Closet occupied.

From outside came the old man’s voice: “Need any help in there?”
“No sir,” I said, pretending confidence. (Lie. I did NOT have it under control.)

And then—the miracle. Out of all those shorts… every single pair fit. Every. One.

So I bought them all.

I strutted out of that store with my pile of white shorts and my western style silver-button sandals, feeling like I finally belonged on the island.

Would I wear those sandals for more than ten minutes? Absolutely, that is in the next blog.

And just like that, the Woman in Black had been reborn… as the Lady in White Shorts.