The other week I wore a short skirt. A mini skirt actually, even though nobody seems to use that term anymore. I’m not sure when I stopped wearing short skirts, possibly somewhere between child one and child two. I can almost date it via a photo in one of the massive albums of my eldest son’s first year. There I am sitting on my couch, breastfeeding him just before I went to a work function, wearing high heels, a short dress and a cardigan. In the photo, I look perfectly at ease with a baby on my boob and bare legs.
After that, there is very little photographic evidence of my bare legs (except for a while, on the page of my Sunday Life column as I was somehow convinced by a stylist to wear a number of very short skirts and very high heels for my column photos. After a few weeks of opening Sunday Life and wondering who the hell was standing on my page, I begged my editor to let me re-do the pictures in a way that was less mini and more me.)
So what happened? If it was a conscious decision to put my legs away ten years ago, I can’t recall making it.
Un-making it though, was more memorable. Foolishly, I picked a ridiculous day to pluck my denim mini out of retirement. It was 5:45am and I was scrambling to find something to wear for my weekly Today Show segment where I discuss the day’s news with Karl Stefanovic while perched on a high, spinning stool. This stool gives me enough trouble on a normal day because it slowly spins of it’s own accord, usually when I’m waving my arms about trying to make a point, which is often.
Throw a short skirt in the mix however, and well, awkward.
I realised this as soon as I sat down and, not wanting the world to be my gynaecologist, I had to think fast. With mere seconds before Lisa threw to Karl, I grabbed a nearby newspaper and lay it over my lap like a nana blanket.
Fortunately, it was a particularly feisty segment and Karl was too distracted by our argy bargy to ask me why I was wearing a broadsheet as a skirt.
My answer may well have surprised him.
Last year, while splashing around in the swimming pool with Karl’s own wife and our respective kiddies at a friend’s BBQ, we noticed that none of the other women were swimming. Just us, the kids and the blokes. And it was HOT. Cass told me how she’d recently made the decision to say stuff it and stop fretting about her body not being perfect enough for swimmers or short skirts. “Our bodies aren’t going to get better than this,” she said. “Only worse. And we’ll look back at this age in ten years and think ‘what the hell was I so worried about? What a waste of time and energy.”