Times they are a changin'

Every year when it turns from cool to warm weather (and vice versa), I pull down my purple sterlite tub o'clothes and take stock of what I've tucked away eight months prior.  Usually I know every item of clothing by heart and it's a quick decision what to unpack into my bureau and what to leave for next year.  At least a quarter of the bin stays put. Wistful hopes of losing an entire femur or pangs of nostalgia that create a force field of protection from the donation pile have allowed items like the men's windbreaker embroidered to commemorate a 2006 family reunion to linger year after year. I have a very hard time getting rid of things.  [<- That kids, is an example of an "understatement."  Say it with me, "under...statement."]  I have socks I bought in college... yes, socks.  Many of my clothes are throwbacks to my years in retail when I had an employee discount and line of credit that forgave all manner of spending indiscretions.

But since the wedding we've had to be much more strict about what we keep and what bites the dust.  With one non-bedroom closet in the apartment, there's a limit to what we can keep and one tires of playing tetris with things like air conditioners and amps.  So last night I did the unthinkable.  I carefully folded and placed into the "resale" bag, my SRO skirt.  

I purchased this size 10, 14" long (WHAT?) skirt six years ago at Arden B at the Cambridgeside Galleria with my best friend Carolyn.  I was 22 years old and getting ready to drive 10 hours in a sub-compact car all the way to Richmond Virginia to see my oh-my-god-new-favorite-band, Carbon Leaf play on New Year's Eve.  It was my first road trip.  It was my first night reserving a hotel with my own debit card.  Not to mention it was my first 14" skirt.

And folks, the reality of a 14" long skirt is that you do not sit down.  I repeat, you do NOT sit down.  This is why we call it the Standing Room Only skirt(tm).  You do not bend, you do not kneel, you do not crouch, you do not squat.  You barely move at all, in fact for fear that your 10 inches of backside will sneak a peak from beneath the hem and make an unscheduled guest appearance.  

This is the skirt that introduced me to Lee.  Lee was 24 years old and worked trimming branches (aka lumberjack) just outside of Richmond.  And man, did I think he was dreamy.  Weeks after we got back into Carolyn's little car, my film camera filled with rosy-faced photos of me and Lee, late night, long-distance conversations continued.  But that time of my life has come and gone and as a married lady, there's really no place for an SRO skirt.  (Which is weird, I know, 'cause it's only 14" long.)  So if you know a size 10, twenty-something looking to strike out across the country to meet her very own lumberjack... give me a call.  I have just the thing for her.