My friends: skirts

Monday 25 June 2007

Yesterday evening I realised something amazing.

In 40 days I haven’t worn trousers. Well, if you don’t count large pyjama bottoms in which I spent one or two Sundays, I’ve worn NO trousers in 40 days. I’ve worn nothing but skirts for over a month. Every day! Isn’t that totally ridiculous? That hasn’t happened in such a long time that I can’t remember my previous record. That's to say, what has happened to me is revolutionary.

What’s more, I feel normal.

So obviously for the unconditional follower of trouser-wearing that I am, things can’t be reversed without pain.

At the beginning of my convalescence it was easy, I was nothing but pain and suffering. The extreme sensitivity of my genital zone left me distrustful of all my close fitting clothes in my wardrobe, and trousers even more so. I could see that my comfort and well-being was possible only in a skirt. I was already in pain and I wasn’t going to add to it by trussing myself up in trousers.

That lasted all the time I was off work. I was at home, my bare legs gave me the impression of being by the sea in the summertime.

When I went back to work I wanted to wear trousers again as usual, as the pain and even the pulling were no more than vague memories, and the itching which remained with me didn’t bother me.

Only, I pictured the ravages which the friction from the crotch of my trousers could cause on my clitoris while healing, and I trembled.

So I rejected all my clothing values and decided to follow a skirt cure.

Standing in front of my wardrobe I discovered several things. First I didn’t have many skirts, barely ten. And of these ten or so, very few were suitable for my professional working environment. I’ve bought skirts only to have around during the summer. I don’t even have a suit, that is to say of the sort I need.

I’ll pass by on the humiliating report on the remaining number of skirts which no longer fit me. Seeing that I rarely wear them and only in the summer, I obviously didn’t know that they were shrinking (my theory is that a skirt unworn is an unhappy skirt. And everyone knows that an unhappy skirt shrinks.).

I had to call on some smart dresses which I have to enhance the pile of wearable skirts, and in order not to wear the same thing every three days.

Then I realised the point at which it was hard to lose my automatic reflexes. How many times did I calmly open my cupboard on the left and take out a pair of trousers while humming, before realising it wasn’t going to be possible? How many times did I lose the thread of my thoughts in front of my cupboard on the right, troubled by seeing no trousers there?

Honestly, I battled to undo what I hadn’t realised was an addiction until I found myself confronted with the necessity of shunning my adored trousers. It wasn’t easy.

What’s more, I had to review my depilation strategy because I could no longer hide my legs.

I benefited by chance from my operation taking place during the spring and not the winter. That way I could skip tights, stockings and the like (especially as I’m permanently depilated). I don’t know why, or rather if, I do know why, my tights practically never survive an unfortunate encounter with my nails. If I manicured a bit more often, my nails would be less jagged and my tights would have peace.

Good, so it’s summer, so no tights. Even though in a strong wind or rain, I’m cold, even very cold. It doesn’t matter too much you see, I live in Paris. That implies that the time I’m in the open air is more than limited (long live public transport). So I clench my teeth, my pullover, my legs and speed up my steps. And the cold is bearable.

What’s more, there are the looks from the flatterers. I had never realised how much success you could have in a skirt. Even with shadows under your eyes, spots (hoorah for spring) and not even a low neckline. It’s rather pleasant I have to say.

My love being greatly in favour of my decision to wear skirts, I envisage buying a load of them during the sales.

My goodness, I don’t recognise myself.

It’s ridiculous the effect it has had on me. Because it’s mellowing wearing a skirt. At least it’s had a strangely calming effect on me. I wasn’t masculine to start off with, far from it even, but the speed with which I’ve got used to myself in skirts, I’m going to transform myself into a femme fatale without the time to say "oof". If that happens I’m going to have a passion for high heeled shoes any time soon.

My God!

In the end though, what comes out of all that is that it isn’t so difficult to wear skirts. Nevertheless, since nature returns at a gallop, even if you send it out to graze, I tried on my largest jeans yesterday evening. Just a question of finding out my clothing options.

It started really well. I managed to do up the buttons and take a few steps without any problem.

It was only when I sat down that I knew that I wasn’t ready to put on my favourite jeans again. They still aren’t at all acceptable to my convalescent zone. Which hastened to protest with a painful discomfort. After that, even standing, the charm was broken. I wanted to pull down on the crotch of my jeans and even keep it like that permanently, between two fingers. Unfortunately that isn’t at all classy and what’s more it keeps one hand occupied full time.

I therefore, wisely, returned to my skirts.

I’m going to be patient a little longer, hoping that I don’t get bronchitis, laryngitis or who knows what, walking around like that, with bare legs even though it isn’t even 20 degrees … [68 degrees F]

[Original in French]

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