Like My Skirt?

I was in my closet this morning, going through clothes I haven’t touched in five years, getting ready for my move. The grown-up ones. The ones I bought when I had a title, a role, and places to be that required a certain kind of costume. I held up a blazer and thought: huh, this thing always felt like it was wearing me, not the other way around. I always futzed around in it like I’d borrowed it from someone not quite my size. I couldn’t get it off fast enough when I got home. The blazer and the bra were usually gone before I made it out of the hallway.

So, there it is. That Debi, in a pile on the floor, headed to Goodwill. I like to think some gal is going to dig through the rack, pull out a Stella McCartney blazer, and do a full internal SCORE! That’s exactly how I want to remember those clothes.

This Debi wants mismatched sweats and weird socks and t-shirts from everywhere she’s been and whatever random thing made her laugh at the time. She’d rather dress like a teenage boy most days and play dress up when it suits her.

Something about that pile on the floor took me back to the first time I remember putting something on and immediately knowing it wasn’t me.

And there she was. Nine years old, Rose Park, 1973.

I was in fourth grade at Backman Elementary, and until then my wardrobe decisions had mostly been based on whether I could climb a tree or run fast in them. I liked running fast.

Her name was Jeri. Short for something. I never cared to ask. She sat in the front of the class, probably because of her eyesight — thick glasses, and two very ambitious front teeth, the kind of girl that other kids immediately identified as a target. But she was funny. Genuinely funny. And I was funny. We both got in trouble for being funny, me from the back of the class and her from the front, and somewhere in the middle of a PE exercise we were paired up for, we decided to give friendship a go.

Jeri liked to wear short preppy skirts, and she made sure everyone knew it. Every single day, to whoever was in range: like my skirt? It was less a question than a declaration. A daily press release. I always thought the skirts were an odd choice. Mainly because we sat on hard wooden chairs all day, and every time the bell rang she had to peel the backs of her legs off her seat. Still, every single day, another skirt.

One day at lunch, I somehow found myself huddled in a corner with Jeri discussing matching skirts. She was making a surprisingly good case for it, and I guess I was ready to try something new. I had no skirts. She, on the other hand, apparently had drawers full of them, and invited me over after school to see what we could find. I said yes. I didn’t have to ask anyone for permission. There was no one to ask. This kicked off a short but impressive run of bad decisions.

She pulled out two in matching colors, different patterns. Hers fit perfectly. Mine did not. I had never worn a skirt in my life, and there I stood, my skinny, bruised tomboy legs sticking out from underneath one. I looked like someone had dressed a feral child for brunch. She said I looked good. I looked in the mirror. I did not. I knew this was a bad decision and went along with it anyway. Nothing new there. But I wanted to try the girlfriend thing. All my friends were boys.

We wore them the next day. Jeri’s daily press release had been rehearsed, updated, and announced the moment we entered the classroom: look at our skirts! I knew before we made it through the door that I had made a catastrophic childhood error.

The mocking at recess started before we even got outside. Kids are animals. Jeri went running off crying. I was going to start swinging, which was generally how I handled these situations. But that day, oddly, I didn’t. I followed her instead. Her glasses were all fogged up from crying, and she ran straight into the bike rack, somehow knocking the two most ambitious teeth right out of her mouth. Curse or a blessing? Today, she is probably thinking blessing.

She was out for two weeks, which in school days is like the rest of the year. She came back with full headgear, which put a temporary damper on both the comedy and the press conferences. I was friends with Jeri for approximately eight days.

The next day I went back to my regular duds and my friends who were boys and felt instantly better. Lesson learned. Briefly.

Jeri mellowed out a lot after that. The daily skirt press releases quietly ended. We drifted into different fourth-grade circles. I now imagine her somewhere in Oregon, owning a crystal shop with her boyfriend Harrison, eating organic produce and driving a Saab.

⁂

The skirt wasn’t mine. I knew that immediately. What I didn’t know was how many things I would put on after that with the exact same feeling and wear them anyway.

I wore the corporate clothes for years. The blazers, the structured things with the designer bags, the outfits that said serious person with serious business who takes things seriously. I built big businesses in those clothes, stood on stages in those clothes, shook hands and gave keynotes and made people pay attention. The clothes worked. But they never fit.

I was a woman with a purpose and a dream. I wanted to make a difference. I understood that sometimes you have to dress for the room before you can change what happens inside it. I wanted girls to see someone from the other side of the tracks standing at the front of the room and understand that where you came from didn’t mean a damn thing about where you were going. I wanted to build something that proved it. The clothes were part of the job. I just never confused them with me.

I knew exactly when I stopped needing the costume. That part was abrupt. But for some reason, five years later, there it was, still hanging in my closet. This morning I held up that blazer and realized I hadn’t missed it once. Not even slightly. I’d outgrown it a long time ago. I just hadn’t been ready to let it go.

That Debi, the one in a pile on the floor: mad respect. She showed up, she did what she came to do, she meant every word.

This one, standing in mismatched sweats, she fits perfectly.

These stories were dragged out of my mind. I stand by almost none of my decisions. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent. Mainly because I can’t remember them.

That’s what’s on my mind this week. Meanwhile, in the actual kitchen — muffins baking. Music on. Pull up a stool. Recipe below.

For the price of a fancy NYC muffin, pull up a stool at my kitchen counter. Whatever this becomes, you'll have a front row seat. Messy, real, and worth every crumb.

And, if you feel like passing this along, I won’t stop you.

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