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Glimpse of a black skirt

Writer's picture: Sandra MitchellSandra Mitchell
glimpse of a black skirt / photo of clothes hanging in a closet / Sandra Mitchell / Writer. Marketer. Facilitator. Coach. / Grand Rapids, Michigan

Last night, I went on a trip down memory lane while in my closet.


I was trying on outfits for my sister’s upcoming wedding when my hand brushed past a favorite skirt I used to wear out in the real world – back when I had to leave the house for work.


This skirt was part of one of my best outfits. Cut like an upside-down tulip with decorative buttons on the front and a side zipper, I paired my skirt with tall black boots that had patent leather stitched at the tips of each toe. The boots had no zipper and fit like a second skin. I had to really wrestle them off at the end of the day, often falling back on my bed, out of breath.


I remember how I pushed back at the hospital’s dress code – I eschewed tights for the black lace knee-high stockings that peeked from the top of my boots. And I wore a pinstriped blouse with ruffles down the front. When I left at the end of the day, I would put on a shorter black trench coat with more ruffles. My hair was long – down to the middle of my back – and very dark.

This was an unforgettable era of my life. I worked at a rehabilitation hospital in Grand Rapids. I loved the mission, my manager, my teammates, the patients, the work, the technology, and all the learning and growing that was gifted to me. I had just launched an award-winning website for the hospital. I was part of something meaningful and I had a community.


But there is one particular afternoon that came rushing into my memory. It is late fall and nearly dark outside. I am walking across the corridor that bridges two parts of the hospital. My hair is swishing back and forth across my back, the heels of my boots click on the tile, and the hem of my skirt swings just above my knees. I stop to talk trash with one of the maintenance guys. I am carrying a vase of flowers I had received from the guy I was falling in love with (now my husband of almost ten years) to congratulate me on the aforementioned website. The energy of the hospital was at a low buzz, with most of the staff gone and patient therapies done for the day. I usually left the hospital much earlier, but I was meeting Joe for dinner that night so I had hung around a little longer, and I was loving being present at the place where I worked.


I’ve always enjoyed clothes. I think they’re part of creative expression. I’m certainly not on the cutting edge of fashion, preferring vintage finds from estate sales or leggings purchased from Amazon. But I do spend time watching – and re-watching – Sarah Jessica Parker in Sex and the City, or keeping one eye on Emily in Paris while painting, and leafing through fashion magazines while riding in the car or sitting on the beach.


I love how catching a glimpse of a black skirt can transport me back through the years, give to me again all the feelings of a specific time or event, and help me remember the person I once was. At that time, I felt like I was getting my feet under me – that I was truly learning how to be an adult as well as someone who was learning what it means to serve.

That outfit was good in my eyes. And the vibes of that day were even better. The outfit served me well at work and while sitting across the table from Joe as we got to know one another better (and while we flirted, of course).


I think about that job often. I left after seven years due to some drama and staff changes. I often wonder how much the job has transformed? The mission? The technology? The medicine? The people? The productivity expectations? How has the heart of the hospital changed? I can’t trade in who I’ve become to go back to corporate healthcare, but when I was there, it was everything. That job was a gift I wish I had more fully recognized at the time of it. Though there’s no going back, I could freelance, right? (I have such a soft spot for those patient stories.)


At any rate, I still have the boots, which I wore to my son’s wedding last January. My hair is silver now and not as long, but it’s getting there – I will be the old woman with long salt and pepper hair and I’m okay with that. The glorious ruffled blouse is long gone. And, though I can’t quite zip up the skirt these days, it will stay in my closet, ever-present for my next round of nostalgia.



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