My ears perk up, just the slightest twitch. I’m awake. I check the weather app. The high of 60 degrees sends me into a ferocious craze, a vicious fervor. My drawers open with a triumphant swoosh, hands shoveling deep down into shirts, pants, chunks of fabric that go unidentified as I search and search the cavernous space of my dresser. My eyes lock on my target. Shorts. In 10 minutes I’m outside, the birds chirping their morning song. I take a deep breath in, imagining the months ahead, for you, for me, for us.
Make it known, far and wide, a new era of campus life is upon us. Hibernation has ceased. Well-rested, our knees are emerging from a hardy winter. The knees we’ve been hiding under jeans, sweatpants and dresses. These knees, like trusty swords, are now unsheathed, on full display in cute mini skirts and tasteful jorts.
Like zealous knights, we ride into battle—legs first—ready to confront our soon-arriving finals, summer internships, old stomping grounds. Gone are the times for meekness, hiding our legs because of something as trivial as freezing temperatures. We are bold, dare I say fearlessly consequential. And what’s more fearlessly consequential than wearing weather-appropriate clothing? Nothing.
With the arrival of spring—and by extension, shorts and skirts—we become a campus of Bella Hadids. Watch as we strut to and fro the Deece, squirrels watching in awe, cheeks gaping as we pass. Their squirrel brains marvel at our exposed limbs, their squirrel voices choked up by squirrel tears at our arresting figures.
You, however, are reluctant to shed your floor-length pants, boot-cut or baggy, even as tulips and daffodils bloom, as temperatures rise to the ’70s, ’80s. Why hide your towering legs from the rising spring sun? A wise and omniscient soul once said: “If you got ‘em… flaunt ’em.” Shorts, skirts, jorts, jirts—hoist them up like a flag on your body. Let your thighs be a beacon of light, a symbol of truth, a melodic alma mater.
Be shocked at how fellow students stop and salute as you pass. Relish in the extensions your professors grant you, too busy to grade your paper on the ethics of microbreweries when sporting their navy blue bermudas.
Watch as everything you know and love crumbles around you as a shorts and skirts obsession takes the campus by storm. Sit in a resolute silence as the Matthew Vassar sculpture outside of Main is covered in a plaid H&M mini skirt, when the Commencement speaker is replaced with a mannequin wearing only baggy, sage-green capris.
Will short-wearing stop next winter? Everyone moves on, but you do not. You now demand shorts even when it’s freezing. You run from class to class, bare skin on display, crazed hair whipping wildly behind you. People see you sprinting to and fro the Brew, iced drink in hand, defying the power of Mother Nature once again. Your resolve grows stronger as the snowpack thickens, as the stares of weirded-out classmates intensify. Your knees grow hardy, resilient, your calves strengthened by your constant need to run for warmth. Your friends worry about you. They brush it off as just a harmless phase. You are a shorts-clad supersoldier, who reports to no one but yourself.
One day, you grow weary of your knees being on display, but you find you’re powerless to stop the need to wear skirts or shorts. Pants seem to repel themselves when you try and pull them on, a magnetic force pushing the garment away. What to do? You grow frantic, embarrassed, a recluse. You search for answers, anything to get back to your life before. You immerse yourself in Vassar history, spending days and nights in the library searching for a remedy, a solution. Surely a student has gone through this before, surely they were able to reverse it. You grow tired, out of ideas. In a desperate last attempt at seeking help, you type your query as a reply to President Bradley’s Sunday email. The music swells. You hit send from your cracked iPhone screen. And then silence.
Buzz. She replies in 60 seconds, an ominous, “Come see me for tea.” You go.
Bradley shares the solution with you as you sip your cup of English Breakfast. You gasp as you hear it, taking in too much liquid, a slight snorting of tea escaping you. Your eyes widen. You’re confused. She explains. The repulsion of floor-length clothing is strongest itself in the ankles, calves and knees, but it’s not impenetrable. The solution, as the students of Vassar’s yesteryear discovered, was the hoop skirt. Pants were an impossibility to put on, but the hoopskirt, secured at the waist without contact below the thigh, acts as an all-encompassing force inward against the repulsion. With enough hoop skirt wearing, the force field collapses in on itself, and your legs regain their autonomy.
You gobble up this knowledge, hope now in your heart, and head to the Tri-Annual Dutchess County Hoop Skirt Convention. You hoist yourself into one promptly, refusing to take it off for days, waiting for the wretched fashion curse to leave you. The next Sunday, it does. Good riddance, you think, as you attempt to shove the hoop skirt into the deep recesses of your closet. You’re eager to forget the semester’s torments, your incredible journey, but deep, deep down, a different thought can’t help but emerge. You feel confident, powerful and free. Dare I say, fearlessly consequential.