I own four beige mini skirts right now. Four. I counted them Sunday while doing laundry, sitting on top of the dryer like it was an intervention, and my first thought was not “this is a problem,” it was “which one is the good one,” which tells you everything about where I am with this category.
One of us in my apartment (me, talking to myself, this is a one bedroom, there’s no roommate to blame) thinks a beige mini skirt is basically a blank check, wear it with anything, done. The other side of my brain thinks it’s a habit dressed up as a staple, the way buying the same candle every time you’re stressed feels like self care but is actually just a pattern. Both of these are true and I’ve stopped trying to pick a winner.
The one that actually earns its spot is a stretch twill from a brand I won’t even pretend I remember, six dollars at my usual spot, the one with the Tuesday restock I’ve mentioned before and will mention again because that man knows what he’s doing. Six dollars, worn probably thirty times since spring, that’s twenty cents a wear, and yes I did that math twice because the first number felt like a typo.
The tights situation took longer to sort out than the skirt did. Sheer black tights under it in cold weather looked like I was trying too hard to make a summer skirt lie about the season, tried that twice, abandoned it both times. Opaque black works, but only with boots, with flats it reads a little bit like a school uniform, and I say that as someone who did not go to a school with a uniform and still felt the vibe. Bare legs and a chunky loafer is the actual answer, apparently, which I could have told past me and saved her a whole confusing October.
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Tops are where the other three skirts fall apart, honestly. A silky camisole tucked in looks expensive right up until you sit down and it un-tucks itself in protest. A boxy tee works better than it has any right to. And one of the four, a linen blend one that cost more than the other three combined, I bought entirely because a nearby influencer wore hers with a cropped cardigan and I thought I could do that too. I cannot do that too. It sits wrong on me, reads more secretary-on-her-day-off than the effortless thing I was picturing, and I know it, I said so out loud in my own apartment, and I still wear it because the math still kind of works.
So no, I haven’t resolved the argument. I’ve just added a fifth skirt to the pile and moved the intervention to next month.
