Hosiery Is Evil And Must Be Stopped

OK, call me overdramatic, say I’m over-exaggerating, roll your eyes at my nonsense, but I firmly believe that tights/stockings/hosiery/whatever you call them are the stuff from which evil is made.

Yes, if pressed, I would argue that evil is made out of nylon. Shut up, it makes sense in my head.

I say this, because yesterday, I spent twenty-five minutes trying to get three different pairs of tights onto my legs. No other part of my morning routine takes twenty-five minutes. Not even a shower where I wash my hair and do a deep conditioning treatment.

The first pair just disintegrated when I put my foot into them. They were probably old, so…

The second pair were made of wool, and I may have tumble-dried them, so no amount of tugging was going to get them above my knees.

The third pair were the old traditional nylon, and sturdy, as they were a pair of “tummy shapers” from M&S. And it was this last pair that caused me so much trouble.

First I got my feet in, then when said tights were mid-calf, I realised they had somehow twisted through 90 degrees. If you don’t know how tights work, let me explain: the threads of tights must run straight up your legs, otherwise you either look like you’ve got some sort of skin condition (due to the way tights are shiny and reflect light) or this immediately reduces the available ‘stretch’ by 60% ensuring you’ll spend the day walking around with the waistband nowhere near your waist. Instead it will be bisecting your buttocks in a very uncomfortable way. And if you’re really unlucky, it will roll down (rather than sliding) ensuring you end up with what looks like some sort of growth across your butt. And the threads of tights do not like being straight. They do not like it. If there is an opportunity to twist, they will take it.

Oh my God, I hate tights. Just thinking about this is making me angry.

Anyway, tights had twisted, so I pulled them off, regathered them, and then slid my feet back in. This time I got to mid-knee before the twist occurred. By now, the time to leave was drawing near, so I carried on dragging my tights up my legs. I made it to my hips, before the twist was so bad I could go no further. This time, I retreated to my toes, and pulled the evil, evil tights until they were straight, before finally managing to inch the waistband a couple of inches higher, whilst the tights themselves cackled and determined to twist around, restricting my circulation and ensuring that I would spend the day in persistent discomfort.

At this point, just when I was thinking, “I can do this, I can do this, I can make these tights sit properly”, the other piece of tights-magic happened. Not the twist but the magical metamorphosis that turns every single one of your neatly filed, smooth nails, into jagged talons, with hangnails and torn nails, that catch on every piece of fabric you turn to. I reached for the tights to smooth them into place, and the claws on the ends of my fingers ripped through the tights in about six places.

Grrrrrr.

I stared at the tights for at least thirty seconds, wondering if I could get away with this, before deciding I could and reaching for the tights again. ALAS! My claws struck a second time, and I shredded a different part of the tights.

I had now given up. To hell with tights, you can all see my legs. Deal with it.

I spent another five minutes wrestling the remains of the tights off my legs. The process only enabled my hooked fingertips to shred said tights still further, until I was finally free of their constrictions and lying panting on my bed in exhaustion. I was now several minutes late to leave, and I had no more pairs of tights.

And that, Gentle Readers, is the reason why I did not wear tights yesterday to my grandmother’s birthday, and subjected all my family to my pale, furry legs.

Tights. Are. Evil.

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