Why You Should Never Wear A Leather Skirt Downtown In August
Sometimes when I go through writer’s block phases, I wonder how the hell I’m going to get through the slump where nothing I write seems to make any sense, and then a miracle happens. A miracle that most normal people would consider a new standard for an all-time low, chronicling shame and embarrassment, which I happen to believe is a gift from a universal force to rid me of my writer’s block. So here are the reasons you should never wear a leather mini-skirt to a bar on college night in the middle of August:
All summer I’d been hunting down the perfect leather mini-skirt as it topped my list of fashion must-haves, beating out red skinny jeans and cat-eye sun glasses. I finally found it a weeks ago and had been waiting for a skinny day to coincide with a night out downtown. That night finally rolled around this past Thursday. So I threw on my leather skirt and an open-knit stripey sweatery thing and headed out on yet another 105 degree Austin in August night. What I failed to understand whilst dressing myself was my utter lack of practicality when it came to wearing leather in 105 degrees. Instead of considering the consequences of my outfit choice, I twirled around the mirror, pretty damn pleased with myself for managing to turn something that sounds trashy, like a leather mini-skirt, into fashion-y and put-together outfit. There in lied the reason for the most uncomfortable next 24 hours of my life. If only I could’ve known what would’ve happened…
I’ve never really been the claustrophobic type. I do quite well in crowded, cramped spaces like elevators and although I’m a stickler for personal space, I’ve never one to put any one out just because I don’t like being close enough to them to literally see sweat drip from their pores. So last night it came as a surprise when at a crowded bar, I felt the immediate need to get the fuck out into a space where no one would be within a three-foot radius of me. And you know who is to blame? That godforsaken leather skirt…okay and maybe a couple drinks. Either way, I was determined to get that skirt off and since apparently the police label rescuing myself from contraptions that happen to be my own clothing “public indecency,” it was made pretty clear to me that I had to get the hell out of there and back to my place. So my friends (God bless ’em, oh and #texasfight) got me into a cab and on my way home.
When I got in the cab, the woman asked me if I was okay and although I’m not absolutely positive what my exact response was, I know I said something along the lines of, “Sometimes you just gotta the fuck of somewhere, you know? Also, I’m literally wearing a lower-body straight jacket.” At the end of the cab ride, in my drunken stupor, I particularly remember paying for my $9 cab fare with a $20 bill, unwilling to wait for change, wanting to leave this night behind as quickly as possible, the thought of waiting for change felt undoable. I said, “It’s a $20. You are exceptional,” and made my way into my place.
Now when I get home in a considerably drunken state, I do my best to be practical. I leave my key under the mat for my roommate to get in later since we rode together, I turn the air down, I put a water bottle and a trash can by my bed, just in case. Well, that’s what I thought I did anyway. Come to find out this morning from my roommate, I actually left the keys only slightly under the mat, turned the air down to 50 degrees, and slept with my trash can over my face. Oh, cool.
Being the vision of responsibility and grace, I set an alarm for my 9 am class before going out. However, I forgot this, when my alarm went off at 8 am. So when my alarm went off, instead of thinking of the class I had that morning, I focused only on getting the annoying ringing to stop. Still in summer mode, I turned the alarm off and went back to bed…only to wake up at 8:58 am…and consequently freak the fuck out.
It’s important that you know I’d missed the first class meeting of this Friday 9 am class, which took place this past Wednesday at 9 am, because I was flying in from DC (Yes, I was there for the earthquake…Yes, I tweeted about it, what?) so I’d never been to this class before. I asked my roommate to drive me to class, as I frantically stuffed my backpack with nothing even slightly useful for class like my iphone charger, a bra and a magazine. On the drive, I looked up the room number for the class on my phone and by 9:06, I’d made it to class. Or so I thought.
From 9:06 to about 9:26, I thought to myself, “Well, hell, there sure is a lot of men in my ‘Women in the News’ class.” It wasn’t until the professor asked about assigned reading that I realized I was in the wrong class. I glanced at a fellow pupil’s notebook and sure enough she’d written the course name in the header and that’s how I became an RTF major for a day.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t just leave as soon as I realized that I was in the wrong class. I’ll tell you why. Since I showed up late, mind you in last night’s hair and makeup, almost all the seats were taken except for one smack freakin’ dab in the middle of the classroom. So I pushed six cramped students through just to get the seat and now I was trapped unless I wanted to make another scene, as if coming in late and squeezing past pretentious and generally angsty RTF majors had been enough. So I had no choice but to sit there. Naturally, I tweeted about it. And prayed that the class got out at the same time as my actual class.
Sure enough it did and I rushed just across the hall, a mere five feet away, just in time to catch a professor who I had yet to actually meet, only to tell her why I’m missed all two of her two classes thus far. Luckily, she was particularly tickled by the story and was forgiving enough to not even bring up the fact that I was blatantly wearing last night’s makeup consisting of smeared mascara and remnants of what I swear was actually a really fantastic smokey eye. So I went home and made a makeshift bed on my bathroom floor and promised myself that trite promise, a staple in every college student’s vocabulary, I’m never drinking in a leather skirt again.
Well, maybe that’s just me.
p.s. To all of my friends, you rock.