Cardigan and skirt, J.Crew. Blouse, Banana Republic. Tights, Hue. Shoes, Ralph Lauren.
Over the past two years, I've accumulated an abnormal amount of guilt over rarely wearing this mini skirt. It was a very thoughtful gift (bright print, my alley, enough said) from the Mecca of preppy/nautical/conservative/well-made apparel, known as J.Crew. Why? I guess it would have to be the "mini" part. Once a favored length (see also: plunging neckline a la J.Lo and fire-engine red hot pants), it is not as feasible after a certain age. A) It requires thigh coverage via tights. B) It clings to hips and rides up as I walk, thus undoing said coverage. All this may lead to unwelcome stares and catcalls (real or imagined, and you won't believe how fast I can walk past construction sites!) and the ongoing fear of having a twelve-year-old boy sneak up on me and flip my skirt inside out, like an upturned umbrella - true story, serves me right for pairing it with roller-blades. Wishing to put all these "childish" concerns behind me (after all, I roller-blade around adults only these days), I pulled this mini out of my closet on a windy, rainy day of walking to a not-yet-chosen restaurant (much like a caveman hunting for his dinner and I honestly don't see much difference between his loincloth and mine). This act of bravery bought me a few guilt-free hours in the company of the Skirt Gifter and a new-found tolerance of my younger self (yes, fire-engine red hot pants, I cringe a little less now). Next stop? The gym, to tone up for future heroic acts of thigh exposure. One can only dream.