Those who know me decently well know that I’m not a huge fan of jeans/or pants.
This may or may not be related to an incident in the 7th grade, where I happened to catch a glimpse of my ankles while searching for my sewing machine’s foot pedal during Home Ec. Ankles that should have been covered by my Chic jeans. (Chic is not an adjective, it’s a Target brand. Or at least it was in 1996.) Let’s just say that 8th grade saw a resurgence of the tights and miniskirts of my youth. A resurgence that has yet to wane.
This almost-New Year, I have decided to timidly toestep my way into a pant leg or two. I have also signed up for 5 straight days of Soul Cycle. (At some point my issues with length may or may not have been replaced by issues with everything else - namely, my thighs.)
After today’s class, I ran home to shower and throw on some comfy clothes before trekking out on a few errands.
Denim. Go for the denim.
Loud sigh. Fine. I shimmy into a pair of skinny jeans and reach for one of my fav sleep-shirt-ish tanks. Jeans are a little tight and shirt’s a little sheer, but none of that will matter when I shrug on this amazingly thick/warm sweater/robe.
Great success. I head out into the neighborhood to check some generic boxes off my list.
My last stop is a Trader Joe’s stock-up sesh. (Thanks for the gift card, Santa!) I gather my two solidly packed bags of groceries, exit through the automatic door and step out into gale force winds. Weather. Eek. Good thing I live close by.
Bracing myself against an oversized breeze a few minutes later, I look up to see a middle-aged man getting out of his car, staring me down and smiling. Creepy.
The next gust of wind brings a late-20’s-ish dude looking my way, half-smirking before making eye-contact and shooting over a friendly grin. Um. I-uh. Ok. Must be my new glasses? Moving right along.
When a third surge of atmosphere settles down to reveal an elderly gentleman penetrating my skin with a lingering slash appreciative gaze, I am officially put off. This seems a tad excessive.
Then I realize he is not penetrating my skin. He is penetrating the incredibly thin layer of my tank top that is now completely and totally exposed, thanks to the wind forcefully ripping aside the edges of my sweater/robe. And yes, it is really cold.
Oh. My. God.
I struggle to free up one of my grocery-bag-laden hands to clutch my cardigan closed. This only lasts a few minutes. Bags. So heavy. Why did I choose today to go full squirrel mode on my kitchen shopping? Over the course of the next 11 blocks, I make several more attempts at keeping things appropriate, to no avail. Eventually, I decide I really only have one option left: Hold my head high and feign complete ignorance.
It was awkward.
This never would have happened in a dress.
