Maybe this year.
You know those good intentions you set for yourself, but never follow through with? Wearing skirts is one for me. That is, if you’d go so far as to label wearing a skirt as a “good intention,” which apparently I do.
In grade school the uniforms we were provided gave options for three different bottoms: pants, skirts, or shorts. Pants sucked, so from grades 3-5 I wore shorts, if I could help it. Texas doesn’t have a tendency to fluctuate much in its seasons, so this usually meant most of the year. However, in middle school all of that changed when I felt an intense pressure to start wearing skirts. All of my friends were, and since I was 11 with no real opinion of my own, I felt I should as well. This was a point of internal contention, because even at such a young age I had already developed an intense hatred for shaving. On top of that, skirts limited my movements at recess: I couldn’t do cartwheels, I couldn’t jump off of things, I couldn’t run very fast; I couldn’t really do much of anything.
Of course, one gets older and realizes this is not a real issue, and even if it were it’s one that’s easily solved. But I do catch myself now and again wishing I were a bit more . . . feminine. For me, prolonged indulgence in femininity has often been like drinking what might be a fourth or fifth cup of coffee. It beckons, it calls, it looks so good—so you give into it. You take a sip and the seduction is as amazing and incredible as you hoped it would be. And then, finally, there’s that one molecule too many of caffeine that sets off a chemical reaction wringing your nerves so badly they begin to coil into themselves, and you want to die.
And thus my problem with wearing skirts.
Zara top, skirt and heels; Anthropologie headband