I have come to believe that stockings are the invention of communists and/or the devil. They are a method of torture, and only serve to ruin the day of the wearer-and quite possibly those around them.
When I wear stockings, which is hardly ever because I hate them more than I hate this man, one of two things inevitably occurs:
- They run the instant I attempt to pull them up past my too chunky thighs. And they run in a place where I can’t hide the run, like right down the ENTIRE back of my leg. This makes me want to scream because it means that the money I spent on them might as well have been flushed straight down the nearest toilet.
- About 3 hours into the day, the elastic in the waistband starts giving. This means that the rest of the day will involve the stockings riding down until the crotch is closer to my knees than to Vangelina Jolie, and/or that I’ll be tugging at them while doing awkward moves to get them up where they belong.
Today happens to be a stocking day. Guess what? The waistband is shot AND I have a huge run down the front of my leg. The issues with the wasitband have caused me to walk funny all day, so it looks like I spent last night making sweet love to some stallion. Which I did not. The run makes it seem as though I spent too much time on my knees at lunch time. Which I did not.
Damn you, hosiery industry. I hate you.