The other weekend, I was out of town, visiting some friends at their schools in Washington,… The other weekend, I was out of town, visiting some friends at their schools in Washington, D.C., and we decided to go shopping.

Correction: The term “shopping” would imply that some sort of currency was exchanged for a commercial product. Not the case. At this point in the year, I’m so deep in financial debt to my sister that I might as well promise her my first-born child, not that I intend on having any — ever.

No, during this effort to boost our nation’s economy, I was merely an observer, content to absolutely torture myself, checking out all the cute, new spring items that I’d have to sell my soul or children in order to pay for. It wasn’t too bad. I’m not much of a shopper — with the exception of shoe sales. All those black boots and strappy sandals that I love just seemed to scream, “Buy me!” But I was fully aware of the depths of my fiscal despair and, when I walked into Steve Madden — well just twist the knife, why don’t ya?

I’m pleased and proud to report that I made it through the afternoon purchase-free, although I couldn’t help but notice a trend in the available clothes from this year’s spring and summer collections.

Our shopping venture led us into a store that shall remain nameless, but is sickeningly popular. It’s notorious for specializing in T-shirts designed to look “vintage” that cost the desperately trendy teenager upwards of thirty dollars. It’s the place where everyone who enters its doors leaves looking exactly the same as one another, and insists on blaring its music exceedingly loudly — I guess in hopes of numbing the customer’s brain before they catch a glance at the obscenely high prices.

This all-the-rage clone factory had just set out all its newest line of spring and summer underwear. As I went to check it out, I realized that my eyes had deceived me. These weren’t undergarments at all. These feeble, two-inch strips of material were being passed off as shorts!

I already hold a grudge against shorts as it is. I sport skirts from April until mid- September. I find them to be much more comfortable and flattering, and they make my overall ensemble look much more put together. The only shorts I don are of the mesh variety — when I’m at the gym or my summer job that clearly doesn’t call for professional attire.

All of that aside, my biggest beef with shorts is that I flat-out refuse to pay $5 less for a pair of shorts than I would for a pair of jeans. I spend 80 percent of my waking hours wearing jeans. I feel that I can justify dropping a sizeable chunk of change on a quality pair of jeans. Spending practically the same on a garment with one-twenty-fifth the material that can only be worn three months out of the year — forget it, buddy.

The shorts being put on the market this year are definitely pushing the boundaries of bootyliciousness, which only adds more fury to my anti-shorts vendetta. These suckers are so miniscule that there is absolutely no way a chick can walk around without half of her ass hanging out. This may be welcomed by some of you gentlemen, but honestly, need I remind you that not all of us come equipped with Gisele Bundchen’s figure?

In reality, there are some derrieres that are meant to, and should, be carefully tucked away. All the women I know have no desire to emulate Julia Robert’s career choices in “Pretty Woman,” or have the guts to parade around like J. Lo, anyway.

To be fair, the short selection gave my friends and me a few good laughs. I may even go back and pick up a pair. Word on the street is that my little cousin’s doll is in desperate need of a fashion overhaul.

Colleen Bayus would love to buy some new summer clothes, but first needs to find a j-o-b. Suggestions? E-mail her at [email protected].