The first time I saw a running skirt, my husband and I were driving around town while running errands on a hot Saturday afternoon.
“Wow, look at her go!” my husband exclaimed, pointing at a gazelle on the sidewalk.
I turned to get a better look.
Posture – excellent.
Relaxed upper body – check.
Speed – at least Gazelle Mach 1.
I was about to (jealously) give her a two thumbs up when I noticed something strange about her shorts.
They were a skirt.
My husband, bewildered by my silence, turned to me expectantly.
“So?” he asked.
I slowly pivoted my head toward him and snapped the waistband on my judgey tights.
“Not a runner.”
“Wait. What? She’s running!”
“Runners don’t wear skirts. WE don’t wear skirts.” I replied.
After that, my husband did what a husband should never do. He pointed out every person he saw working out in a skirt.
“Tennis players wear them.”
“Golfers wear them.”
“Field hockey players wear them.”
Eventually, he gave up on his game, and assumed my hatred of running skirts was just another quirk he’d have to live with.
Over time, my distances grew longer and I got pickier about what I wore while running. I got too hot in tights, but I hated the lack of coverage running shorts provided.
I just couldn’t find the ideal thing to cover my lower half.
One day, my friend and I went shopping on our lunch break.
“Oh, wow! Look at this!” she exclaimed, holding up what looked to me like a mini-skirt.
“Aren’t we a little old for mini-skirts?” I joked.
“No, silly, it’s a workout skirt. I wore one when I taught spin classes. They keep you cool, and they’re really modest. See?” She lifted up the front to reveal a set of shorts tucked underneath.
I blinked, flabbergasted.
“Know how annoying it is when you have to adjust your shorts mid-spin class?”
“Well, the skirt keeps you covered if they bunch up. I’m surprised you’ve never tried one!”
So I bought one.
A hot pink one.
“What’d you buy at the store?” my husband asked when I got home that night, hot pink running skort hidden deep in my purse.
“NOTHING!” I barked, and scooted upstairs to hide the skort.
The next morning at runrise, I snuck out while my husband was still sleeping.
It wasn’t long before I felt “slide-age”. Still skeptical of the skort’s magical coverage powers, I pirouetted a few times to see if I was still covered up.
To my surprise, I was.
I went on to have a great and, most importantly, comfortable run.
When I got home, my husband was awake. He met me at the door with a smirk.
“Is that what I think it is?”
The smirk became a smile. “Did you run… in a SKIRT?”
“That’s a SKIRT! Did you lose a bet or something?” The smirk was now a toothy grin.
I sighed and whispered, “I was wrong.”
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
He leaned in a little closer.
This time, I replied a little louder.
“I like running in a skirt.”
“I still can’t hear you… you’ll have to raise your voice,” he said grinning ear to ear.
“IT’S A SKORT AND I LOVE IT!” I exclaimed.
I pulled up my humble skort and ran inside, my figurative tail between my legs.
Sometimes, we need to try new things.
Sometimes, we need to look beyond the surface before making assumptions.
Sometimes, we just need to lose the judgey tights and put on our humble skorts.
So judge me all you want, runiverse. You don’t know what you’re missing.
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