I ruined a $130 skirt, which is a soured night out for some people, but for me this was an investment.
The next three News Years, ten big dates, countless rep lunches, a trendy funeral
My signature, my ride or die
And what makes me crumble most is I didn’t even buy it.
My mother, my wonderful all-and-ever-giving mother got it for me
Because she knew it was important, it IS important
To me, to anyone, any young woman with a decent head on her shoulders
-I mean Bobbi Brown donates interview clothes to charity for skirt’s sake-
To find and behold the universal black bottom:
It goes with anything, it makes you look flawless at everything
And BCBG, I thought I loved you, you gave me the gift of breathless versatility
The Meryl Streep of closet staples
Hugged the hips, trimmed the sides, cashed the assets, worked the magic
The skirt that makes you go from 17 to 25, refined
Unmoved by tricks, lines, shortcuts, fad diets, cheap mascara
You told me I could wash it without kiboshing it
It says right there on the tag, recorded veritable proof:
“Gentle cycle, tumble dry low.”
“I love you forever, Jen.”
You might as well have fed me those 5 bullshit words, they would’ve gone down sweeter and I would’ve been less skeptical.
Why couldn’t you just tell me to get it dry cleaned or else the thing would’ve turned to arthritic rubber.
I would’ve done it. Gladly, graciously. The crispiest $6 in my pocket. All on you, baby.
But you lied. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell me the truth, that you’re a little high maintenance. That I can’t just put you anywhere at the dinner table. You get razzled amongst my baggy men’s sweaters reserved for snow- sick- and Saturdays. You want more than pajama company, everyone has Victoria’s Secret bedtime flannel bought with an unsatisfactory gift card.
Not like you. Nothing like you. You’re special.
And you’re not ready to meet my friends. You want me to keep you holy, you don’t want me wearing no other skirts.
You want attention, TLC, your own plastic bag and We Love Our Customers decrepit wire hanger.
You should’ve been honest, I can take it.
So we’re done here, you ended us. You’re laying down on my floor, stretched and worn out, flattened and defeated.
Nothing left to give, not a rayon inch. I should’ve known better, sure, but you should’ve been more accountable.
If it ain’t dirty, don’t wash it. If they play dirty, don’t get played.