I am secretly fond of my legs.
I don’t tell anyone for fear of sounding vain, or receiving an eye roll or a haughty nod when wearing a skirt. And, to be fair, there’s not a lot to boast. Sure, I have long legs, runner’s legs that make already short dresses shorter. But I can’t take them on tour. I have a folded skin scar from a poisonous spider bite on my left knee. I can count, at any given time, upwards to ten bruises that make a pattern of my calves. I’m a lax shaver. Basically, my legs are a hot mess.
But they are mine. They’ve carried me across finish lines in races and lend me some advantage on dance floors. And I like them.
So I can’t defend my need to cover them, save my penchant for pant suits. And, because I am often in pants I think the allure of a pant-less Sunday was enough to warrant a bare-all adventure. On public transport.
The plan was simple: take off your pants on the subway.