We still don't wear a skirt

The greatest proof that we've barely made any progress—compared to what we could have made—and that we're old-fashioned, boasting of modernity, stuck in a sexist and segregationist past, is that men don't wear skirts. One of the many barriers we've yet to break down. A decision that, moreover, is common to all Western countries—and don't mention Scotland, an isolated case, and the Scots only wear a specific type of skirt, which, moreover, is impractical and doesn't match almost anything. Wearing one in any other context would be equivalent to dressing up in ankle-length Alpujarra curtains and believing ourselves to be transgressive. How is it possible that we still haven't all dared, regardless of gender, to go out on the street showing our legs? Don't all calves sweat? Why this condemnation? Well, because of what I said above: because we're not at all modern, nor do we have that open-minded mind. And clothing store designers know this. They're aware of how daring we are and of the power of a single piece of fabric.

Years ago, faced with the stupidity of it all, I woke up one morning in my old apartment in the Alps and went to Geneva to buy a skirt. I thought: these Swiss people don't give a damn about anything; either I try it here or I'll be left wanting. Before doing so, I asked my sister, who knows a lot about fashion; she advised me not to, but to buy, at most, a kilt, those anchor-like skirts somewhere between heavy metal and Scottish that weigh a ton and keep you warmer than they keep you warm. I refused. I want to look cool, Mariángeles, not look like I've stepped out of Winterfell. I wanted something flowing, soft, light... And, if possible, something not black or plaid. Something colorful or a pretty pastel shade. And I found it, in the women's section, of course.

I woke up in my old apartment in the Alps and went to Geneva to buy myself a skirt.

I was embarrassed about wearing it to the fitting room, so I tried it on at home in front of a full-length mirror. I looked very attractive. And I looked really cool! I posted a photo on social media, and my friends cheered and applauded me. They told me I looked great and that I was right to wear it, while at the same time, none of them dared to try one on. No surprises.

Read also The sad life of broken things David Uclés

It didn't take long for me to exchange it. That one morning with my legs free, I went grocery shopping at the market, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. Everyone stared at me, constantly and blatantly. I was afraid they'd take my picture and that I'd go viral like the Andalusian who buys Gruyère in Switzerland showing his leg. And when I got home, I folded it neatly, put it in the bag, and took it to exchange it for money. The truth is, a part of me felt uncomfortable with it. The reflection in the mirror was beautiful, but I was embarrassed to look at myself. I guess that's normal. It's not easy to leave a path paved for so many years.

Maybe one day I'll go to a gala with one.

Hopefully.