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That Wicked Skirt

That Wicked Skirt

Right after my work out at the gym, which is conveniently right smack inside the mall, I stopped by Starbucks for a small (or “Tall,” as they call it) cup of coffee and embarked on a little window shopping. Working out early in the morning has its benefits—although the retail stores are still closed for business, short of the people who work there, I practically have the entire mall to myself.

So I passed by JCrew’s window display and was enamored by the cutest outfit: a mustard ‘n black plaid mini-skirt topped by a lovely cozy green sweater over a blazing red shirt. The outfit would look really fantastic with opaque tights and dark Mary Janes. So cute ...

Call me strange or whatever, but knowing myself—or my history, rather—as much as I can see that it’s an outfit that I absolutely adore, I also know it’s an outfit that I wouldn’t actually wear. It’s not so much the entire outfit, really. Quite frankly, it’s the mini-skirt. I love the mini-skirt but wouldn’t be so inclined as to wear it or to even try it on. I can easily shirk off such feelings by calling it too girly, or go so far as to say that it’s just not me. But, don’t I define me and can I not change that definition any time I see fit? Perhaps it’s because the mini-skirt resides a bit beyond my cute outfit comfort zone or maybe perhaps it’s simply because I’m afraid to try new things or what if these feelings of discomfort arise from my ever so butch tomboy inner child who is just gagging from nausea at the mere sight of that mini-skirt ... AAAAh!!

Oh hell, whatever the case may be, that’s one wicked skirt!

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