White Stockings

I’m usually a black tights kind of girl. Hopelessly Bridget Jones, I know, but there it is. Sheer black if I’m going for elegant or professional; opaque black if my goal is hip or hippie (yes, I do all those looks on a regular basis). I also have gray--in particular for gray plaid mini-skirt with black turtleneck--and purple and green for whenever I feel like it. Then I usually have a couple of pairs of tan/nude-for-white-people for outfits that black would bring down.

Like, say, the beige skirt and burgundy sweater I wore yesterday. Only yesterday I discovered, as I pawed through my drawer, that I was out of tan/nude-for-white-people. That’s what happens when you buy cheap stockings: you wear them, they run, you throw them out, you run out, you don’t make it to the mall, and there you are, staring at a drawer of black stockings, with the occasional dash of gray, green, and purple. And, at the very bottom of the drawer, white.

White? White stockings? Why on earth would I have white stockings? In another life, back in the 80s, I did that look, unfortunately, though it didn’t seem so at the time. I’m sure I wore white stockings to my wedding. But now I know that white stockings, especially sheer white stockings, cannot be good, unless you are a nurse or going for some kind of elaborate Goth Schoolgirl thing, neither of which categories I occupy. Still, there they were, and they seemed marginally better than the other options, so on they went.

I knew it was a mistake almost immediately, but the morning was moving rapidly along, with girls to dress and feed, lunches to make, backpacks and bags to pack, so I just went with it.

Like I said: mistake.

I felt hideous all morning, even in my perfectly nice beige skirt and burgundy sweater. I decided to work at home in the afternoon, because I could, and because I knew I could take off the white stockings as soon as I walked in the door. Which I did, and then put them straight in the trash.

I learned a while ago that if I had a piece of clothing that seemed perfectly reasonable on the hanger or shelf but made me feel ghastly whenever I wore it, I needed to get rid of it--so that I wouldn’t be tempted to wear it just one more time and see if it could possibly work. It was a pleasure to throw those stockings in the trash. Now I just need to get to the mall and buy a couple of pairs of tan/nude-for-white-people to stuff in the bottom of the drawer for next time.

[Now that I know D is out there writing smart things about politics AND reading my blog, I feel kind of superficial writing about white stockings. But, hey, it’s my blog and I just gotta be me.]

[Though I’m disgusted with the idea of Wolfowitz at the World Bank. So there.]