A skort. And I have to tell you, the first time I saw one properly explained I laughed, because it is such a simple answer to a problem people had put up with for a hundred years: a skirt on the outside, shorts underneath, one garment. You lunge, you stretch wide for a low ball, you sit on a bench between games, and nothing about your clothing enters your mind.
That is the entire idea and it does not need any more than that.
The fabric is moisture-wicking, which is the feature that matters in the heat: sweat comes off the skin and goes out to the surface where the air can take it, so what you are wearing stays light through a long third set instead of turning into something you are carrying. Beyond that I will not embroider.
It is an athletic skort, made for playing tennis in, and it is at its best on the sort of long, hot afternoon that leaves you sitting in the shade afterwards not wanting to move.
And it is homesick for Mysore, which is a city I think about more than I should. The palace there is Indo-Saracenic on the outside and Hoysala within, rebuilt after the fire of 1897, and on the nights they light it the whole building goes gold in one switch.
Up on Chamundi Hill, at the top of a very long climb, the Chamundeshwari temple sits with the whole city laid out below — and I have stood up there in the evening and felt so far from home that the feeling turned into something almost sweet.
"Skirt outside, shorts underneath, and your clothing never enters your mind again."
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