I don't know how women do it, these daily acts of being a woman: the grooming, the shaving, the eye-brow plucking, the hair-styling, the wearing so stylishly of skirts and dresses.
I bought this adorable corduroy skirt recently, soft and velvety and fawn-colored, just shy of the knees and with the sweetest little bell-shape.
I love it, I really do. And I put it on this morning, and pulled on some charcoal-y stockingish things and my black high-heeled clunky boots and my lace-trimmed black camisole and my burgundy-ish eyelet long-sleeved hoodie, and walked out the door feeling tall and sexy and cute.
Only to have my adorable little skirt riding half way up my thighs and no end in sight before I even crossed the street to the bus stop. So I spent the bus-ride to work berating myself for not bringing along a pair of pants to change into (just in case...), and wondering how the hell I'll get through the day with the constant not so subtle tugging down of the skirt as I clomp my way around the library, and back across campus again to meet my boys for dinner.
I love my skirt, I really do. But apparently women sometimes also need slips. Or something.