Monday, August 8, 2011

If you can test drive a car . . .

then why can't you test drive a skirt?

My daughter and I did a little clothes shopping while we were vacationing in Portland, OR. We have to do our clothes shopping online or far from home, because to shop near our home requires that all of our clothing be blue and white and have "Penn State" silkscreened, stamped, or appliqued on each item.

We stop in a lovely, well-tended boutique. My daughter picks out a slightly-above-the-knee, floaty, jersey skirt and informs me that I must try it on. Apparently, with one eye shut and using my dyslexic eye, I confirm that the price is right. I take two other items and my daughter into the dressing room with me. The clerk brings us a bottle of sparkling water and is the epitome of the perfect fitting room attendant.

The skirt is awesome. Clingy. But not too clingy. Lightweight. A dream floating over my kneecaps. Ahhhhhhh. Somehow completely (in my mind) hiding the middle-age tummy that has become an owner-occupant. The perfect skirt. The skirt of my dreams. And at such a reasonable price. I feel so good purchasing from a local designer and something made in this country (hopefully not some sweatshop on a U.S. "owned" island). We quaff the Perrier and declare I shall purchase the skirt.

I open my good eye and read the price again. Shit! Feeling buoyed by the sparking water, the attentive clerk, and the memory of my happy thighs in the skirt, I decide to purchase it anyway. I mean, it IS perfect. I tried it on and sat in it and swirled in it and bent over in it and nothing bad happened.

Until the first day I wore it. After flying thousands of miles home.

It was a breezy day . . .

I felt confident that I looked AMAZING in my AWESOME skirt. My head was high. My stride was long and sturdy. I felt liberated.

Really liberated.

I thought that the passersby were admiring the new me in my glorious skirt.

It wasn't the skirt they were looking at. No. Every one and all were getting an eyeful of untanned thighs and ancient underwear.

I firmly clutched my skirt all the way back to the car.

The hubby says the skirt looks damn good on me. He makes small guttural animal noises when I wear it. I kind of like that. So now I stride confidently through the house in my skirt, head held high. Aint no wind in the house.

In the future, when I feel the need to purchase a new skirt, I'm going to take a small fan into the dressing room with me. If I'm asked if I would like a sparkling water, I'll decline. Instead I'll ask where the electrical outlet is.


  1. Ha-ha!
    No more floaty skirts for me either on a windy day:)

    But I suspect Hubby will like you wearing it often:)

  2. Ah...maybe some of those little clip on weights for picnic table cloths, (you know the ones?) might help :)

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