"Being a Hot Girl is about being unapologetically YOU, having fun, being confident, living YOUR truth, being the life of the party etc." - Meg Thee Stallion
As soon as I try the shorts on I start twerking. I’m talking hands on my knees, arch in my back, wyling in my bathroom mirror, type of shit.
I text my group chat: “Ya’ll, I’m feeling myself way too hard in these shorts right now. I just twerked all over my house. I’m about to have no behavior this weekend.”
“You? Twerking?” My friend writes back in disbelief.
“Girl stop, you know ain’t got no rhythm,” another one says.
Ouch.
But, I can’t even front, they’re right. I’m the girl who sits on the back of the banquette in the club, sipping my drink, raising a lazy arm in the air, and doing a little bop here and there so no one can say I’m “no fun.”
And that’s assuming you even catch me in the club, at all.
In a summer dedicated to “real hot girl shit,” I’ve been putting most of my effort into going after the bag. My uniform has been my mumu, and the only couch you can find me on is the one in my living room; where I sit, computer up to my nose, finishing deadlines. During writing breaks, I’ll scroll through Instagram stories of girls I went to college with taking shots straight from the bottle, or posing with one tanned leg lifted in the air, #hotgirlsummer. I’ll pause and look down at the computer in my lap—sitting atop the same mumu I’ve been wearing for three days—and think to myself: bitch you are so washed. For a moment, I’ll consider answering texts from friends asking to meet at that “spot in Bushwick.” But the moment will always pass, and I’ll go back to my grind.
It’s important to note that having a “hot girl summer,” isn’t all about partying. There’s no one working harder than the slogan’s own pioneer, Megan Thee Stallion, who explained the movement is about “being YOU” and “living YOUR truth.”
Which by definition, would mean my nights at home with takeout sushi and fancy wine from the shop up the block, totally count right?
Not quite.
Megan also added having a “hot girl summer” is about “being confident and having fun.”
That part is, admittedly, hard for me. The act of going out means silencing the reminders on my mental checklist, and just being present. Add in my rhythmic challenges, and history of feeling a little awkward in my own skin, and you get an over-thinker who sits on the back of the banquette in the club.
But, if there’s one thing I appreciate about the “hot girl summer” wave, it’s the energy it has funneled into my community. Half of my friends and I are fresh out of breakups, work is picking up for all of us, we’re the youngest we’ll ever be, and our melanin looks fire in the sunshine. Why not own all that we are, unabashedly?
These shorts just might be the extra push I need.
I take a look at myself in the mirror again, peeping how amazing my ass looks in them. Half of my battle with confidence comes down to so often feeling uncomfortable in clothes. Nothing kills my vibe more than having to constantly pull down the hem of my skirt, or sit with my arms folded across my stomach to mask the soft roll of flesh that spills over my jeans when I’m wearing a crop top. These shorts are cut to accentuate the good stuff, my waist looks tiny.
What’s more, I can actually move in them. I drop easily into a squat and pop back up, (with only the faintest sound of my knees cracking in the act), and decide it’s not even about me at this point, these shorts deserve a night to hit the streets and stunt real quick.
I text my group chat again, “Nah forreal, I want to go IN this weekend.”
That Friday, I buy Casamigos and Maker’s Mark from the liquor store, and cute mixers, too. Since it might be my only opportunity of the summer to go all out, I am ambitious. When my friends come over to pre-game, they will have their choice of “Blackberry Bourbon Smash,” or “Smoky Paloma.”
When I hear my doorbell ring, I’m so hype to show them to my makeshift cocktail station. But as soon as I open my door, they each get stuck on my look; offering a collective range of “Bitch,” “BITCH,” “bitch!,” at varying octaves.
“Okay, shorts!” one says, with an approving nod.
I feel so good, so free. I feel like all the bad ass bitch energy I had tucked away, has been dug out and dusted off.
Someone starts playing Rico Nasty, and I bend over and start to shake sum’n. My homegirl films it for her stories, #hotgirlsummer.