Skirting the Issue

by Kathryn Eastlick

I have a favorite top—light blue cotton printed with dainty flowers and finished with a lace overlay intertwined with matching ribbon. It's a work of art, really, and one of my best steals ever—snatched for the double markdown rate of $24.99 at Nordstrom Rack in Phoenix. I wore it, along with a hand-painted silk skirt, white strappy sandals, and vintage pearl earrings, on my first summer day in Seattle last year.

It was one of those, "Hey, is this really Seattle?" days—early September, still warm, sunny, and no chance of rain. Warm weather meant I could still dip into my summer wardrobe.

I love my summer clothes like a cherished art collection. I hang each halter-top, tank top, and spaghetti-strapped wonder on fabric-lined hangers, next to my prized assortment of ruffle-hemmed silk skirts. I'm no Carrie Bradshaw—I don't spend thousands on my wardrobe—but I can scour a sale rack with the trained precision of a bomb-sniffing dog. Ka-BAM! Donna Karan skirt on sale for $14.99, with only a button to be replaced. Ka-POW! Betsey Johnson polka-dot dress for only $34.99, with just a little tiny stain that will disappear with some love from Woolite.

When I arrived in Seattle and started hanging skirts and halter-tops in my closet, my fiancè Ken shook his head. "You should get out your fall clothes. This weather won't last."

"I don't care," I replied. "I love my summer clothes, and while it's still 70 degrees, I'm wearing 'em."

"You know," he said, "Nobody wears that stuff here."

"What do they wear?" I asked.

"Um, black. Fleece. Flannel."

I shuddered.

"Well, this is how I dress. And hey, this is the land of open-minded hippies and Democrats, right? It's not like anyone's going to make fun of me for dressing up, are they?" I asked.

"Of course not," he said, patting me on the head.

LIAR!

That day, that first, summer-in-Seattle day, I floated down to Greenlake to admire the geese and check out that cool-looking shoe store, grateful that Seattle had chosen to greet my arrival from Phoenix with a run of unseasonably warm days. I ambled along the lake, merrily clicking my heels along the path. Moms, dudes, chicks, and kids walked or wheeled by. I smiled to myself, thinking of my future in this exciting new city. With a dear sweet fiancè, a new job, and my summer clothes, how could I lose?

A plump goose waddled across my path, cutting into my reverie. I changed direction to follow the goose to the lakeside, and accidentally cut off two moms pushing strollers.

"Excuse you, Miss Priss," one of them said.

I stopped and turned around, goose forgotten. The moms strolled away, exchanging eye rolls.

Quelle horreur! Was I just mocked by moms? Moms wearing t-shirts stained by spit-up, no less?

Just then, two girls wearing cut-off jeans and baggy concert t-shirts (a species called "hipster," I have since learned) walked by and looked me over. I pretended to examine the grass. Hmm, grass—so fascinating and green. When I looked up, they were laughing. At me? Were those girls laughing at my clothes? I took a good look around. Sweatpants, shorts, t-shirts, hoodies, tennis shoes—was that fleece? Was that flannel? Not a ruffle or lace trim in sight.

Suddenly I was sure that EVERY SINGLE PERSON at Greenlake was laughing at my beloved summer outfit—laughing at me!

"Look at the freaky Phoenix girl wearing lace at the lake!" I could practically hear their smug thoughts. "Did you see those shoes?" I was sure that little kid riding the tricycle was clearly heading right for my strappy sandals.

I clicked my heels out of Greenlake as fast as I could. When I got back to our apartment, I pulled off my favorite outfit and stashed it out of sight. When Ken got home later, he glanced at my cut-off sweatpants.

"What happened to your favorite summer outfit?"

"I spilled something on it," I mumbled, sticking my nose deeper into Vogue.

Ken was right—the weather soon changed, clouds arrived and the temperature dropped. I pulled out sweaters and carefully packed away my skirts in layers of tissue paper. I even bought a fleece pullover—a black one. But I still wasn't a true Seattleite—on nights when Ken went out with the guys, I pulled out my summer clothes and gave them a loving fluff, then reorganized them according to color, material, or year acquired—depending on my mood.

Luckily, I survived the dull grey winter (thanks to summer clearance and spring preview sales) and woke up one Saturday to a warm, sunlit sky. Summer was approaching. While Ken went out for coffee, I finished primping and fluffing and found myself staring at the contents of my closet.

What to wear?

It was certainly skirt weather, but could I bear the mocks of legions of casual-dress-only Seattleites? Thinking back to the day at Greenlake (known inside my head as The Day of the Great Lake Humiliation), I remembered my favorite summer outfit. Where was it? I hadn't thought of it since that day when I ripped it off and stuffed it in the... HAMPER.

I pawed through the clothes and sure enough, my favorite skirt and top rested in a crumpled ball at the bottom of the basket. How could I have forgotten them? I pulled them out and gave them a good flip-flap to shake out the musty hamper smell. The clothes looked back at me, wrinkled and despondent—clearly they had suffered from neglect.

Flinging off my robe, I pulled on the silk skirt and lace top and looked in the mirror. Sigh. Maybe it was time to pack away my fancy summer clothes for good. After all, I lived in Seattle now. Maybe letting go of my summer-skirt-self wouldn't be so bad. Surely some designer out there makes fleece tops trimmed with lace?

A key turned in the front-door lock. Ken was back. Before I had a chance to change, he popped into the bedroom doorway.

"Hey! Your summer clothes!" he said.

"Oh, I was just trying on some old stuff—just to see if it still fit. I thought maybe I'd make a trip to Goodwill."

I started to pull off the outfit but Ken pounced and wrapped me in his arms.

"Mmmm," he growled in my ear. "Do you want to know my very favorite thing about summer?"

"What?"

"You—in a skirt."

Oh. Well. That changes everything.

"So are you ready to go?" Ken asked. "I thought we could take a walk around Greenlake."

"Great! Just give me one minute—I need to run an iron over this skirt."

Kathryn Eastlick is a recent transplant from Phoenix still getting used to the lack of cacti and to the abundance of fleece. She has been published in Arizona Highways and Arizona Foothills, and hopes to break into the Seattle freelance market aaaaaaany day now. Email Kathryn.