From my vantage point, my legs were built for pants.  My waist/ass/hips were always agreeable enough with each other that they could agree on a size.  My thighs have never aspired to a size 00 but worked well in an era of low waist, boot cut dress slacks.  In my 20s I loved to compete, via heels, with my 6’4″ first husband.  In my 30s, and with a jacked up foot, I have enjoyed a well turned kitten-height heel.

If I wanted to look hot I’d do scandalous things with my neckline, my décolletage is downright breathtaking when it is played correctly.

Until 3 summers ago you never would have seen me in a skirt.

I was also kind of delighted the fact that because I worked and lived in air conditioning I rarely needed shorts because, well, my legs were built for pants.

At the start of LLV, as we resisted putting in the window air conditioning unit that would need to turn three corners to cool the bedroom, I decided to try to wear … something.  Skirts were better (aka easier to find, cheaper, cuter, and more size forgiving) and I had already figured out that my headspace was better if I didn’t look like I had just rolled out of bed for 90% of my days and so off to Kohl’s and the start of my personal leg revolution.

I really looked at women’s legs for the first time, the way that some women go to the beach and realize we are all just mobile meat sacks.  Even when I paid attention I rarely noticed leg hair or veins, and when I did they just looked like hair and veins – blood circulation is GOOD (if perhaps a bit close to the surface).  I got better at wearing skirts and realized that not ever summer breeze was Marilyn Monroe walking over a staged subway grate.

I started a new job today, wearing a pink & white pencil skirt, a white blouse, and neutral shoes.  I think that I may have gotten to the point that the people who think of me as “someone who doesn’t wear skirts” will be my oldest and dearest friends, and you – because you read this.