You know how much I love you, but I think we need a break. We’ve been together too long. I’m still young, honey, I need to experiment, to flirt with different lengths of skirts and maybe even try out some trousers. I’m not saying I haven’t enjoyed my time with you. In fact, I think you helped me discover myself, helped me grow into a real adult. But now I’ve made it, there’s simply no space for you in my life anymore. Our relationship is unsustainable; it has no future.
Our first meeting was a rebellion. Well, it was the first time I’d ever cut without measuring. I didn’t care that I wasn’t going in a straight line. And there you emerged, out of my favourite 501s. The next day when I went to watch the boys play rugby after school, some of them were watching us. One invited us for a milkshake afterwards.
You were there when I had my first kiss. I think you even set it up. You inspired me to buy hair straightners, make-up, and sexy underwear as you teased to let it show. You went with everything. I could feel and look awful from the waist up but with you on my hips I was always powerful, desirable, how a woman should be.
I never got on with jeans. They did the worst things to me, restrained me, and made my thighs feel self-conscious. But with you everything was different. I felt free, I felt alive, and I felt happy. I fell for you too hard and too fast. Suddenly there were no other options. I overlooked mid-calf skirts and trousers that had been there for me for years before you came along. And for what? Because you made me feel sexy? What does that even mean?
I tried to give you up, to get back in the jeans game via hot pants. But that was worse. I could take my hemline even higher with the comfort of fabric protecting my crotch. It’s not like I even wanted people to see my ass. That was just an unfortunate side effect that society liked to exaggerate. I felt taller, skinnier, you were kind to my ample behind and flattering to my small waist, you were perfect for me!
You started getting me into trouble. First, with my parents. They worried that I’d gone off to live in the city, you hanging around everyday, and what was I doing? I could be taking class A-drugs, stealing or, and you made them think this, showing my ass off to earn cash. My brothers felt uneasy introducing me to their friends because you were always there and what were they to think? Then there’s work. I’ve had to invest in a pair of ‘modesty shorts’ to please my boss. He says it’s not professional for customers to see their barista’s knickers.
I have to think about the future. I too readily accepted the moniker ‘the girl who always wears miniskirts’ in my late-teenage years. Now I’m into adulthood and I must leave it behind. I’m afraid that nobody takes me seriously when I’m with you. I need to start wearing pencil skirts, enjoy feeling a hemline dangling below my knees. I can’t get married, raise a family and get a mortgage in a miniskirt. I need to leave you behind.
I can still see you in evenings, at night, some weekends, in secret…
No. We must part ways. Tomorrow morning I’m going shopping for jeans, and I’m dropping you off at the charity shop on my way there.
Goodbye, old friend. It’s been fun.
Miss Ms Sorcha Daly