As my momma always says, “You can dress them up, but you can’t take them out.” Usually such a statement is followed by a southern, ‘bless her heart’ meaning that some fashion faux paus has occurred…such as…I shudder just thinking about it…white shoes after Labor Day!
Today…I was that faux paus. I had a meeting. In Atlanta. With my counterparts. I shimmied into a short black dress, heels that I hadn’t worn since pre-children, a ‘bubble necklace’ and a cool, cape like jacket. I knew that I either looked really ‘trendy’ or that I looked like I was trying too hard but I hiked up my tights and thought–“own it girl” and left the house.
Skip to the ‘potty break’ just before the meeting started. The details are not important. The only details that matter are the SCHRQHZETWTE that occurred when I hiked up my tights. Seems as if the shoes aren’t the only thing that were pre-children. Note to self: the shelf life of tights does not not exceed 10 years and XX pounds. I am humiliated enough without disclosing the amount of weight that I added into said tights. Picture this…mid-crouch I am holding the partial waistband of my tights in one hand while the large portion of the tights remain where they started. Legs shaking I am left to come up with alternate plan. Hmmm….there isn’t one. I am trapped in a party facility surrounded by professionals. I have no means of escape as I am the driver for 3 co-workers. Did I mention that this was a short-black dress with a flouncy skirt? Yeah. I stand. How bad could this be? The tights come almost all the way up. I kimono-scury to the sinks. I got this I think.
2 shuffle steps away from the sink I realize–I may no have this. I can feel the waist of the tights where it belongs. I feel the arse of the tight where it doesn’t belong….slipping. Rapidly. It hits mid-cheek and picks up speed. The slip becomes a roll and quickly lands post cheek. HOLY crap. At this rate I am going to look like a I have on thigh highs which will show under my cute, flouncy little chiffony skirt! I grab the roll and shimmey a bit to get the roll back mid-cheek and hurry up the stairs. Hurry being relative as I have on heels which are really a 1/2 size too small and tights that are fighting gravity. I dart in to the banquet room and sit into the closet chair to the door.
Now what? Can’t take them off–the color of my legs would blind anyone that enountered them, the hair on my legs is ready for plaiting and without the slimming lycra–enough said on that topic. Even sitting there I feel a draft. Geez. As folks file into the meeting I don’t stand. I am sure THAT will be talked about–the rude, sitting recruiter. Through the salad I make do. I try and ignore breeze through the beef. At the apple enchilada I can’t take it anymore. Everyone else is distracted with the speaker so I hike myself up, try and tug the offending garment up. It’s up and over high-thigh. Whew. Bought myself a few minutes. I feel relief for oh—.8 seconds until I hear, “Um Hmm”. From behind me. RIGHT behind me. I have just flashed the waiter. And since the entire ASS of my tights is ripped out I flashed him full-on-granny-panty-ness. Okay…let’s me honest, they aren’t granny panties, they are ripped, but oh-so-comfy maternity panties that I just can’t bring myself to give up. Nice. That is sure to be a vision that that poor man will never, ever outlive. That $2.19 + tips he is making is in no way payment for what he’s just seen.
At the end of the meeting I have to sit it out as everyone departs because everyone has to gather in the lobby to wait for the VALET to bring the cars around. Yep…you can dress them up but some of us should just never be taken out.