Last week, I went out with my friend Katie for drinks at the Moshulu (a swanky tall-ship-cum-restaurant a few blocks away, at which I can afford drinks but not actual food). Because Katie is fabulous, she also happens to be the Assistant Director of my dance company, The Lady Hoofers, and because I needed to pass off some supplies to her for an upcoming performance, we made a quick detour to my bedroom before heading off to Happy Hour.
“Don’t mind the mess,” I warned her. My room was, as usual, piled high with laundry, dance company paraphernalia and mortgage paperwork.
“It’s okay,” she replied glancing towards the first off my office chairs. “I’ll just ignore this pile of costumes here.”
Except it wasn’t a pile of costumes.
“Actually, those are… ummm… my normal clothes,” I said, feeling a bit sheepish about the sequin miniskirt set atop the mountain of ruffled silks and fluorescent capri pants. “I wore that last week. To a nightclub.”
I felt vaguely moronic at that point—I’m nearly 30 years old. What am I doing wearing a sequin mini skirt? (From the clearance rack at Kohl’s no less)—but then I had an “aha” moment.
Actually, it was more of a “fuck it!” moment.
I like sequins.
I like miniskirts.
And if I want to wear sequin miniskirts, as a college professor, soon-to-be home owner and director of a professional dance company, then I will.