Somehow I think I could really get into skirts. Yeah, I feel like I'm in drag in one, and clumsy drag at that, but---maybe the 65-degree air today added to the glorious feeling--- I feel kinda into it. There's a little bit of it being something I can do that "men" are, in some (unjust) ways (and places and times) not so free to do. Like I'm getting away with something, as a woman who doesn't not identify as a woman, but also really is more non-binary that the av-er-age fellow.
We had chorus practice tonight, and I still had the skirt on. Sitting down in Zoom, so like not. But I still did.
Maybe I'll get some more skirts. I've got enough bow ties. Tho I do have a bow tie order out!
Got on a vaccine waiting list today, finally. It's just a waiting list, but it's still pretty exciting.
Times are also glum. Another death in the work family yesterday, and our not being together to, like, be with it. Someone said it's a little like when Arthur died, out of the blue. That sent me back to that time, and what that set off, and a whole other kind of sadness at loss.
One thing about the pandemic, and its blanket of ugh: it seems "easier" to accept people dying, somehow. Not that I can separate it from me being older and having been around more dying. And it could be that that's not why I'm less shaking-my-fist-at-it, outraged. The beaten down just take in another sad thing. I've crossed over into something, I guess I'm trying to say. Or so it feels.
So odd that skirts seem like happy things, and I have a kind of delight in wearing one, and walking around among (masked) strangers in it, as if it's something I do.