Therein lies a story.
It was a frosty, sunny, Sunday morning. Not the same as a dark and stormy night at all.
Living in the Great White North, I tend to wear trousers, jeans, leggings, jeggings, and more trousers, jeans, leggings, jeggings, repeat. But this Sunday morning, I decided to break with the norm and don a fave black skirt with leather panels, purple tights, and my DAV MOTO Liverpool boots.
[Insert warning bells/alarm bells/whatever here.]
I don’t mind saying I looked Elen-awesome. Green fuzzy sweater, black skirt, popping purple tights, dangly earrings, and my DAVS.
I love opaque tights. In fall. In winter. Tights. Tights. Tights. They are beloved accessories and great camo for the pale leg skin of the Northern Girl. Irish winter pale. Fish belly pale. OPI Alpine Snow pale. Pale, I say!
Off we go to commune with the Anglicans, just a Kiss ‘N’ Ride commute away. Vroom. Vroom.
Lucky to get a parking spot just a stroll past the Starbucks to the church, I exit the car. A few steps out and those purple tights feel kind of funny. And not in a good way. They’re no longer sitting at the waist. They’re riding low. Low rider.
Now I’m on the corner waiting for the light to change and the walk sign to flash, wondering if anyone would notice if I gave those tights a good yank upward. I think about being the next viral video on YouTube — Woman Gropes Self On Sidewalk In Front Of The Anglicans — and decide against it.
The light changes and the G-Man watches as his one true love power-minces across the street, past the Starbuckians, like her purple tights are on fire, and disappears into the House of Anglicans. Any of you who have seen Two Weeks Notice with Sandra Bullock and Hugh Grant remember the scene where she exits the wedding in her floor length, narrow, pink dress heading for the Hugh emergency at the Grand Hotel.
Yeah. That would be me. Full on mince-sprinting or sprint-mincing.
I had one goal in mind as I moved through the doors of the main sanctuary into the great hall. I dashed past the concierge desk — yes, they have one — and the friendly greeters, waving and mincing and on and on to the women’s washroom, offering up prayers of intercession. If anyone was having a full on Twitter DM with God at that moment, it was me.
And in the midst of all, I could feel purple tight slippage with every step. Dear. God. In. Heaven.
I blasted through the door and into a stall just as those tights hit the tops of my knees, grateful for a skirt that was mid-calf and a coat that was even longer.
I peeled off the hat, the coat, the gloves, and hurled them at that handy, dandy hook on the back of the stall door, hiked up my skirt and did total tight recon.
And there it was. The master of my fate. It was too much to hope that I’d just lost a pound too many since the last time I wore those tights. Yep. Too. Much. To. Hope. The elastic of my fave tights had… eased.
Forget the mama wisdom about always wearing clean underwear in case you get in an accident. That just wasn’t going to cover it. Pulling an extra pair of tights out of a rabbit hat was looking pretty good about now. Where’s Copperfield when you really need him?
What’s a girl to do?
I’ll tell you what a girl does.
The only thing she can.
I stripped off those tights and shoved my bare feet back into the DAVS and prepared to bare my winter-pale legs to the Anglican world.
Between the length of the skirt and the height of the boots, there was maybe eight inches of exposed leg… while standing. Eight inches of snow white, winter, Northern Girl leg. Yes, I’m stuck on that visual and can’t seem to get off. You would be, too.
I made the trek from the loo to the room of early morning congregation at warp speed, looking neither right nor left.
Plunking down next to the G-Man, the number of exposed naked leg inches doubled.
We’re leaving before communion.
He looked at me sideways. An eyebrow went up.
I leaned forward.
Total tight failure.
He looked down, cleared his throat, and said…
You’re wearing undies, right?
And that’s another story.
By the way, I saw your shoulders shaking, G-Man.
And Monday rolls in on a blast of arctic air. Again.
And it may be summer before I socialize with the Anglicans. Again.
It’s Family Day here in Ontario, and I’m safely home in my wool socks and thermals, quietly burying the
dearly departed purple tights in the backyard.