Too early for tights?
I feel like the weather is messing with me. Is it crazy to feel anger towards the state of the atmosphere and its precipitation activity? Because I definitely do.
Just last week I awoke, peered through the shutters and saw a pleasingly grey sky. I say pleasingly, because I was in the mood to wear something comfy. I had no time for bare skin or the like, I wanted a large jumper, and more than that; I wanted tights.
So, with considerable relish, I dug out my 40 derniers. For the first time since May. And it felt good. No leg shaving, no moisturising, no paranoia at freak winds on the Underground. Pausing for a moment, I just held them. Fondling their velvety black folds. Drinking in the moment.
You see I've never been skilled at a bare leg. I find it a deeply unrelaxing situation, especially in the workplace. Your legs stick to your chair or to each other, you get the imprint of the sofa in your thighs, it's just very hard work. Pair that with a deep-seated, lifelong aversion to my knees and you've got a psychological meltdown waiting to happen. But tights? Tights are like the magic passport to wear whatever you like in whatever length you please. So you'll understand why I was pleased.
Even as a child, I apparently refused to wear trousers or bare legs even in the height of summer (my mum recounts with much embarrassment) and insisted on wooly tights for school and leggings on the weekend. So me and tights, we go way back. See above for evidence - I'm the one on the left wearing white woolen tights with a summer dress. My sister, apparently already confident in her legs by the age of 3, is wearing ankle socks like a normal child.
But back to a grey morning last week. On they went, along with a sturdy jumper and a long Zara duster coat. Great. Except when I arrived at the office, sweating just ever so slightly, everyone else was wearing tee shirts and dresses. Legs everywhere. I felt foolish. I'd peaked too soon. It was far too early for this sort of activity. The clouds had cleared and the day had made a sneaky transformation into what people tend to describe as 'glorious'.
So I did what I had to do. I lasted the day, pretending I was fine, nothing to see here. Watching others slip their sunglasses off as they returned from lunch, their sunned limbs glowing with warmth, the air con blasting, talk of an Indian Summer floating musically across the office.
It's OK though. I see it as a practice run. So when the times comes, I'll be ready. I might even ramp it up to 60 dernier... Who's with me?
Just last week I awoke, peered through the shutters and saw a pleasingly grey sky. I say pleasingly, because I was in the mood to wear something comfy. I had no time for bare skin or the like, I wanted a large jumper, and more than that; I wanted tights.
So, with considerable relish, I dug out my 40 derniers. For the first time since May. And it felt good. No leg shaving, no moisturising, no paranoia at freak winds on the Underground. Pausing for a moment, I just held them. Fondling their velvety black folds. Drinking in the moment.
Even as a child, I apparently refused to wear trousers or bare legs even in the height of summer (my mum recounts with much embarrassment) and insisted on wooly tights for school and leggings on the weekend. So me and tights, we go way back. See above for evidence - I'm the one on the left wearing white woolen tights with a summer dress. My sister, apparently already confident in her legs by the age of 3, is wearing ankle socks like a normal child.
It's OK though. I see it as a practice run. So when the times comes, I'll be ready. I might even ramp it up to 60 dernier... Who's with me?
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