My brother Sam borrowed my burgundy midi skirt as a joke, wore it over his jeans to answer the door for a delivery, and posted it, and that caused a proper argument in our group chat about whether the color reads “wine bar” or “Thanksgiving tablecloth.” I said wine bar. My mom said tablecloth. The delivery guy apparently said nothing, which I choose to interpret as a win.
I own three of these now, which is two more than I need and exactly the number I’d buy again. Burgundy’s the one color in my closet that doesn’t require the mirror interrogation everything else gets, no standing there asking if it’s too much or reads costume-y, it just sits there being correct. That’s rare enough that I stopped questioning it around skirt number two.
The bus stop test matters more than people admit. My work skirt is a slippery satin bias cut, gorgeous under office lighting, an actual liability in wind. Corner of 4th and Pine, one gust, and I spent a full block holding it down like I was guarding state secrets. The other one, heavier cotton twill, barely moves, sits like it has somewhere to be. I’d take the boring fabric every time now, and I never thought I’d type that sentence about a skirt.
Shoe pairing turned into its own small drama. My first instinct was black boots, always black boots, safe, done.
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Then I wore it with brown leather loafers I’d taken off my dad’s shelf without asking, the ones with a sole so worn down he was about to toss them, and the combo got more compliments in one afternoon than the boots got in a year. A coworker stopped me by the elevator specifically to ask about the shoes, not the skirt, which stung for about ten seconds before I decided to take it as a compliment by association.
The gamble in my closet is the pleated one, ankle length, borrowed energy from my dad’s old church suits in cut if not in color. It’s a lot of skirt. On the right person it looks deliberate and a little severe in a good way. On me, some days, I catch myself in a window reflection and think I look like I’m about to give a eulogy. I keep it anyway because the days it works, it really works, and that unevenness feels honest rather than a flaw I should apologize for.
What actually settled the whole family argument wasn’t a fabric swatch or a receipt, it was Sam admitting the color looked better on him than he expected, which is the closest thing to a five star review my brother has ever given anything I own.
