Even the best, most attentive, most respectful elementary school students are subject to bouts of terminal boredom. Those last few weeks of school in May are torture, remember? You sit on your hard plastic chair, the seat of which sticks uncomfortably to the backs of your thighs with sweat while the rattling air conditioning breathes softly and insidiously from the vent near the ceiling, serving no function other than to embalm the backs of your upper arms in an unpleasant, corpselike coldness. The short, wide windows have been opened outwards using the gummy plastic cranks that stop turning when the space created is just shy of permitting a ten-year-old’s body to escape through it, in a blessedly merciful attempt to counteract the unpleasantness issued from the vents. While your beloved teacher stands in front of the chalkboard and drones about fractions in a herculean effort to stay on task, on schedule, and above the rising tide of apathy, your gaze is drawn to the hazy, lazy beautiful day happening outside. You have to stay in your seat in this horrible room on this beautiful day because despite the fact that your body is at its physical peak, that your veins pulse with the wild, bloody, irrepressible urge to dance and run and fly, that no matter what anyone tells you, you know that you won’t really need to use fractions every day (or ever, if you don’t want to) as a grown up, that you are mortal and the precious seconds of your life are maddeningly slipping away in a fluorescent-lit cinderblock tomb while late Spring sings a symphony under a cerulean blue sky with a chorus of voices from which your own is absent, you won’t own your life for another eight years. Despite your physical imprisonment, however, there is absolutely nothing you nor anyone can do to keep your soul from flying out the window like a kite unreeling on a windy day at the beach, hurtling out across clover-kissed grass and up to your rightful place in the dizzy, sunny atmosphere.
It’s at about this point of the year when we start to feel similarly about our winter wardrobes. The black leggings, the wool, the thermals, the turtlenecks, the browns and grays and navy blues, the cozy, suffocating layers of practicality.
It’s time to set your soul free.
These skirts, apart from the functionality of covering your body, are not practical. They are gauzy, like laughter made material. They shriek with delightful asymmetry. They billow and twirl when you walk, and when you dance? Forget about it. Spread those wings and float away on a cloud of chiffon.