the case of the missing skirt

I received an email from Dan this morning, wondering if "the long skirt story is real" and, if so, could he please have the whole story. Of course it's real, Dan, and of course you can have the whole story. I've also decided to respond via the world wide web so as to benefit all (ahem, both) my readers. It's a pretty good story, if I do say so myself.

It was a blustery, winter day in Idaho, cerca 1995. Eighth grade. I had a basketball game that afternoon, and while I generally hated dressing up per team tradition, I had no hesitation in selecting my wardrobe that fateful morning. My closet boasted a new outfit bought specifically for my Christmas piano recital but not yet worn to school: a dark green silk, long-sleeve shirt; black knit vest; and dark green, long crinkle skirt. I completed the outfit with black boots, twisted my hair into my 8th-grade trademark bun (another story for another day), and felt myself to be the epitomy of junior high (Idaho) fashion.

After a quick breakfast of my dad's scrambled eggs and toast [I hate toast], I grabbed my coat, backpack, and duffelbag and went outside to take my place in the Honda Accord. The morning seats were strategically assigned since Katie and Nick were dumped off at the elementary school while I continued with Wayne to where the Vallivue Junior and Senior High schools were located side-by-side. I therefore sat back-left, directly behind the driver, and Katie and Nick were right-siders so as to bail as quickly as possible when we came to a near-stop at West Canyon.

The Honda had studded snow tires, but the roads weren't slick that morning and- after dropping Katie and Nick- we pulled into the Vallivue parking lot in pretty good time as the Smashing Pumpkins blared from the radio. As Wayne directed the car toward his normal spot, however, I was suddenly yanked to the door. Before I could scream, my dark green, long crinkle skirt had ripped down the side, around the waist, and out the door. "Stop! STOP!" I cried, but it was too late. "What?" said Wayne. "MY SKIRT RIPPED OFF ME! MY SKIRT RIPPED OF ME!" Near tears. Wayne, the Accord, and I were in our normal parking spot by then, but I was sitting back-left in my underpants. Official tears. Wayne got out, walked back 20 yards, and came back with some dark green silk remains, which he tossed back to me. "What're you gonna do?" "Call Mom, I guess." sniff. "Alright."

I had apparently shut a sizable amount of my skirt in the car door back at the house, an amount that got caught on the tire's snow studs as we went over a speed bump there in the VHS parking lot. Pulling myself together, I grabbed my yellow basketball shorts out of my duffel bag, put them on, and walked to the Junior High where I proceded to leave a shaky, most-likely confusing message on my mom's answering machine before going to first period. By second period, I was able to relay what happened to friends questioning my green-silk/yellow-shorts/black-boots combo, and by third period I had borrowed a pair of black warm-ups which went nicely with my knit vest. Throughout the day, people came up to me having heard that I was "hit by a car," "fell off the bus," or "caught on fire." At lunch, when I went to the bathroom, I discovered my dark green, silk waistband still sitting pretty around my waist.

Luckily, I get to relive the moment at most holidays and family get-togethers, as well as any time I dare put on a longer skirt. "Get it ALL in the door, Wendy. teee." Thanks, guys.