An Open Letter to My Black Skirt

To my skirt:

No, not the black knee-length skirt with the flare. Not the black knee-length one with the slit up the back. Not the black knee-length one with pinstripes. No, not even the black knee-length denim one that I accidentally shrunk in the wash which now awaits the gaunt frame of someone recovering from a debilitating bout of Lyme Disease.

No, I address this to the plain Jane, just-below-the-knee, two small-but-saucy slits up the side, perfect skirt.

I wore you first to my thesis defense. Not only did you provide courage as I faced the committee (whose first question was "did you know you spelled 'university' wrong on the front page?"), but you also gave me a tantalizing glimpse into a future that was not all about diapers and sleepless nights. The first item of clothing purchased after the birth of The Girl, you reminded me that there was life after maternity jeans and that I could be a good mom, a smart woman and a fox, too.

Since that day, you've been my go-to item of clothing. Equally comfortable keeping company with flats or heels, bare legs or tights, you sailed effortlessly from season to season. You even saw me through my second pregnancy, somehow altering your shape to surround my burgeoning belly without any awkward pulling of fabric. Your only nod to the changes wrought by seven months of pregnancy was to raise your hemline ever-so-slightly - a sly, naughty wink at the vixen who merely lay dormant underneath the pregnancy weight and the tendency to waddle.

Second life came to you from that magical elixir of youth known otherwise as a bottle of Rit dye, and you emerged from your mid-life charcoal slump to once again lend your midnight smolder to my efforts to live Audrey Hepburn's immortal advice: you should always wear two colours, and one of them should always be black.

But alas, an extension of hours does not translate into immortality. Despite our best efforts, we have both broadened over the years, me with my posterial real estate and you with your seams that show signs of giving. And today, like a tired yet valiant horse who falters where he once firmly trod, your hem gave way.

Oh, you tried to hide your shame, resting on years of a sharply-creased hemline to keep appearances in order. But I knew as soon as my knee found purchase in the fold that you had begun that unravelling which leads only to the thrift store pile.

Dearest of dears, first and best black knee-length skirt of them all, I will no longer press you into service. Rest now, my darling, at the back of my closet, full with the knowledge of having done your duty faithfully and well, and that I remain

Stockingly yours,


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