It’s a balmy 55 degrees in Southie today. Soon enough, the wrinkly wall-sitters with the uber-tans will be out in front of the rink again, five-year-olds will be kicking empty cans of Natty Ice around the Marine Park playground, and we’ll be day-drunk, waiting in a crowd at Sully’s for onion rings as mothers glare dispprovingly at us for smelling like whiskey.
The spring hasn’t really come yet, though. That’s not because the vernal equinox isn’t until March 22nd, or something. Everybody knows that the official tipping point where winter turns to spring isn’t decided by the turning of the Earth. It’s decided by the showing of the leg. I looked out my window as I woke up this morning, and alas: today is not Skirt Day.
Christmas. Opening Day at Fenway Park. St Paddy’s. Fourth of July. Skirt Day.
It’s the day when the weather gets just warm enough that girls take off their winter coats en masse and start showing some skin. Just when you think things can’t get any worse – when for the past several months you’ve been waking up to a different kind of wintry mix every day, there’s so little sunshine that you look in the mirror and mistake yourself for Gollum, and you can’t even make a deposit at the spank bank because all the chicks are dressed like the Michelin Man – Skirt Day comes and everything starts to thaw. It would be the best day of the year if it weren’t for the priapism.
And it’s almost here. You can never really know when it’ll come, but come it will. In homage to the anxiously-awaited Skirt Day 2010, we here at SSS will take God off the Shit List when the day comes. God, you sullied my childhood with Catholicism and you’re ostensibly responsible for earthquakes, volcanoes, 9/11, the 1986 World Series, the Mongols, Detroit, and every other catastrophe that has ever befallen anyone. But you also created Skirt Day, and for that you deserve some credit.
So here’s to Skirt Day. May it soon arrive.