Wedge Sandals and (not) Rethinking my Priorities

I hate to admit it, but it turns out I’m more shallow than I thought. Here’s what happened:

I was on my way to meet the lovely AA, who, p.s., can rock a denim skort like nobody’s business, and I was running late. We were on our way to my favorite brunch spot on Smith Street, where I already knew I’d be ordering the pancakes.

Skirt

My cute Lolë skirt. I was wearing it with a shirt, though.

I parked my car with two minutes to

spare, but was a solid six-minute walk away. Since one of my resolutions for 2013 was to be more timely, I broke into a jog. I haven’t been working out much, so it felt good, which I was noticing just as my ankle gave way under my cute little wedge sandal (despite the fact that they’re Clarks) and, well, there’s no good way to say this. I wiped out.

People stopped (this was in direct contrast to the time three years ago when I lost my shirtbalance and rolled like halfway down Ocean Parkway and no one cast as much as a glance in my direction). I stood up, and what do you think is the first thing I asked? Yep. “Did I tear anything?”

Now, by “anything” I meant my cute peach-colored Lilla P. cross-over top that I just bought at my most favorite of sample sales, and my adorbs grey and peach striped skirt by a sporty brand called Lolë from REI (if you think camping stores are not good places to buy cute skirts, rethink)– both of which I’d worn only two or three times. One of the good Samaritans looked down at my leg, and I could tell what she was thinking: “You didn’t tear your skirt, but you tore a hunk of skin off your knee.” Yes, but did I tear my shirt? My skirt? A nice man sipping an iced coffee said “Uh, no, but I think you’re pretty banged up.”

Clarks sandals

The culprit

With a goose egg forming on my knee and blood running down my leg, I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought back to that Ocean Parkway rolling incident from a few years back. I’d torn the knee of my favorite jeans. Even after the attention of an expert seamstress, you could see the stitches, so I’d demoted the jeans from going-out-to-a-nice-wine-bar-jeans to going-to-trader-joe’s-jeans.

AA reaffirmed that my clothes were intact, but was a bit alarmed at the state of my leg. However, some Bandaids, Neosporin, an ice pack, some pancakes, and a nice mimosa later, I felt a lot better. I have my priorities, after all.

 

Mullet Over. Get it?

Eek.

The mullet may have seemed like a good idea for about 23 minutes back in the 1980s. Let’s face it: On the boys from Duran Duran, pretty much anything—including a hairstyle that was long and fringy in the back and short in the front—looked divine, especially if you were a 13 year old girl. But now the mullet has become synonymous with a whole lot of badness. In fact, when I want my hair stylist (to whom I give mad props) to trim more from the back and sides, I say “um, I think it’s still a teensy bit mullet-y,” and she knows what I mean.

The Mullet is Reincarnated in the Form of a Skirt. Yay.

Still, this season someone decided that designing skirts in the shape of the infamous hairstyle would be really smart. Ankle grazing in the back, short—sometimes absurdly so— in the front. I am far from being a fan of this style.

The mullet is also called “business in front, party in back.” The fact that the “business in the front” is knee length makes this mullet skirt not so egregious.

Now, admittedly, word lover that I am, I may just be reacting to the name, the word “mullet” conjuring up all kinds of shudder-worthy images from the 80s. Actually, on second thought, no. Mullet skirts are just ridiculous.

Six Degrees of Mulletness

I will say this, though. There are degrees of mulletness, and the embarrassing thing is that while wandering through Nordstrom the other day, I found myself pausing over a couple of the less mullet-y mullet skirts and having an “I wonder how this would look on me?” moment, which is always a dangerous first step. Something tells me that before the trend has vanished, I may have a mullet skirt hanging in my closet.

I promise I won’t get a mullet haircut, though.