My uncle remarked in his signature, radio-style voice, “Mate, you look like one of the Village People!”
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In a bid to look less YMCA and more Adelaide, I pulled my shorts down a little. But in doing this, my crop top appeared even more, well, cropped and suddenly, my belly-button was out, which led to even more commentary.
My conservative aunty pulled me aside to question my choice of clothing. “Roby, you do know this is a one year-old’s birthday party and not Studio 54! Have you no shame?”
Then I was stopped by the mother of the one-year-old who got straight to the point.
“Roby, what the hell are you wearing?”
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I attempted to explain the situation to her, but to no avail. She rolled her eyes and asked, “Do they even make shorts any shorter than that?” “They don’t. I already asked,” I replied. She didn’t find this at all humorous.
The other mothers at the party, all with small children of their own, just stared and whispered among themselves.
In a way I never intended, I became the talk of a child’s birthday party. I felt as if I was Cinderella, except in this reinterpretation she’s wearing vintage Adidas shorts instead of a ball gown.
In an odd way, I didn’t mind that this happened. Though I had sensed that I’d changed in some ways since moving to Melbourne (my interests have evolved, my sense of self has grown), I’d never had a physical moment that really epitomised my transition. Suddenly, I could see how radically different I was.
Maybe “Fitzroy boy” is a shorthand way of saying that within my extended family, I’m the alternative one. Yes, I live in the inner city, I have tattoos and I study creative writing and film. In that sense, the short shorts and crop top is just the icing on the cake.
And at the very least, it will give them something to talk about until my next visit.
Roby D’Ottavi is a Melbourne writer/director.
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