Last night, I was going to attend a Halloween party being thrown by a friend. The plan was to go as a doll. I had the perfect dress and the adorable black mary jane shoes. However, I did not have the face paint, and I did not have the white tights. I needed both to complete the costume.
Yesterday, I had a pretty full day, so I only had a window of roughly 15 minutes to run in and out of a store to grab what I needed. I figured that finding these things would be simple enough, given there are roughly six million Spirit Halloween stores that descended on the Denver metro area roughly two months ago. Not surprisingly, There was one less than two miles from where I was, on the route to where I needed to go.
In no time, I’d arrived. Finding the makeup was a piece of cake. However, the tights were a different issue.
It really shouldn’t be challenging to find a pair of damn tights for an adult at a Halloween store. And before you go all “why didn’t you just skip the tights and wear white socks instead?” on me, I have to admit that my legs have gone so long without shaving they have become…swarthy. A porcelain doll with excessive leg hair? Nope. Unacceptable I needed tights.
So, I guess, technically, I was hunting for tights first, followed closely by knee socks.
THEY HAD NEITHER OF THESE THINGS. And I don’t mean they had run out of stock, I mean they didn’t even carry them. You know what they did carry, though? Thigh highs - lots and lots and lots of thigh highs.
I get it. I mean, yes, I know people find them sexy. I don’t understand WHY they’re considered sexy, but the world holds a lot of mysteries.
So, there I am, standing in front of a display of thigh highs with limited time, trying to will myself into grabbing a pair. The picture on the front of them, by the way, was of what I can only presume were a set of Barbie legs sporting the packaged thigh highs and a pair of matching ruffled boy shorts. ADORBS.
I squatted down to begin the hunt for the plus-sizes, because, you know, the bigger ones are always sequestered on the lowest rung, farthest back, when I noticed there was only one style available: One Size Fits Most.
Boys and girls, I’m a size 14. The average size of the American woman is a size 16-18. If there’s anything on my body that’s disproportionate, it’s probably my boobs, or maybe my stomach. I dunno. I feel pretty well-distributed. Check me out - already judging my body by the standards of others. High five, me.
I bought them. I did it because I was running out of time, and there wasn’t an alternative. I knew before I slid a package off the rack that “one size fits most” didn’t apply to me. I knew itt was the case before I shelled out money for the damn things, ripped the plastic off the hosiery, or tried them on. And it made me feel really, really shitty.
You know, I failed to mention that prior to the Halloween party, I had to work a murder mystery dinner show for five hours. And, while I wasn’t going to put on the costume makeup for the show, I was going to wear the dress and the tights. Or, the thigh highs, as the case were.
When I got to the venue, I went to the bathroom, and with some sense of dread, pulled on the damn thigh highs. Once on, I stood up, and lo and behold, they promptly rolled themselves right down my legs and right past my knees. It didn’t matter how many times I yanked them up; they just kept shooting back down again.
Remember: my calves were unshaven. I would go as far as to say “hirsute.” And, my dress only came down to about two inches above my knees. The situation was helpless thanks to my vanity and fear of people seeing my furry legs.
I wound up folding the thigh highs down in such a way they kind of, sort of resembled knee socks, but still, they kept slipping. Obviously, I then hunted down scotch tape, trying to essentially adhere the damn things to my legs. That looked super cool when the thigh highs slipped lower, in case you wondered, showing off little wads of tape stuck on my skin around the circumference of my knees. A colleague then suggested hairspray, which of course I tried, because why the hell not at that point, right?
I dropped more f-bombs last night than I have in a very, very long time. I was angry at the thigh highs, I was pissed because my body somehow didn’t qualify as “one size fits most,” and I invested literally hours beating myself up in my head about how, maybe, I needed more muscular quads, or some kind of magical thigh gap.
Aside from the fact that I was utterly exhausted after the show physically, I had worn myself out mentally because of the amount of effort I put into making myself feel “less than” all evening. So, ironically, I didn’t even go to the party afterwards. I went home.
One size fits most, my ass. Happy Halloween. I’m off to shave my legs.