Buttons

I bought a skirt this week.

I didn’t try it on.

It has no stretch.

It has buttons.

It only comes in straight sizes.

It is a brand not known for vanity sizing.

But it was a hot day and I don’t have a denim skirt at the moment and it was on sale. And I looked at it. And I looked at the sizing. And a miraculous thing occurred – because I thought it might fit.

The miracle is not that the skirt went up to a size that I thought I might fit. Nor that I have had some sort of epiphany that I can wear what I like. Girl power. Rah rah. But more that I did not immediately assume that I would need a larger size. Because I could judge the clothing based on its approximate dimensions and actually somewhat accurately parse them to my own denominator.

I bought it without trying it on. I was in a reckless mood and figured I could always take it back, even though history tells me I probably wouldn’t take it back and it would sit hatefully in my wardrobe mocking both impulsivity and the gall of assuming I could buy something off of a rack.

It’s not “flattering”. I never bought these skirts when I was much smaller because my legs are too short and too muscly and I am too everything that means that these skirts are not advertised for people like me. But I still wanted it because I like how it feels when humid air runs around bare legs and bare feet in Summer. And at 43 and after the last 10 years I don’t care so much about what other people think is flattering. And it’s loose around my waist and does nothing to make my short muscly legs look less of either of those things.

But it was hot and humid this weekend and I walked around wearing it. And grinned to myself at the stupid achievement of buying a skirt with buttons.