it's not easy being a girl...in tights.

Autumn is finally upon us. The temperature in New York quickly plunged from gorgeous mid-70s to chilly mid-50s. I have been taking my mild sedatives that I use to force away thoughts of oncoming winter, but I've also been wearing a lot of skirts. And skirts in the fall require tights.

I have a whole drawer full of tights. Solid colors, prints, patterns--a nice variety. And I love what tights do for an outfit. I just hate what they do to me.

Take, for example, two weeks ago. I bought a new pair of cute red tights with a criss-cross pattern, and wore them on the day I had to do a presentation in class. I got through the general hour-by-hour struggle of pulling them up and down, got to class early, and decided I should pee before my presentation. So I went in the ladies' room, did my thing, and when I went to pull the tights back up, my finger went right through them, making a nice hole midway up my right leg that was definitely above my boot line and below my skirt line. There it was, a giant gaping hole, 10 minutes before I had to stand in front of the class and speak. GREAT. Like other things in life, I got through it. I put a sticker of the Poky Little Puppy on the hole and called it part of the presentation.

Today, now, I'm wearing tights again. Different tights, yes. But no less frustrating. Only recently have designers figured out that the torso portion of tights are just all wrong for women. Right now I've got mine pulled right up under my bra, which is necessary to avoid having a roll of stretchy fabric right around my waist. Of course, they don't stay up under my bra like they should. Instead, they slide down until they find a roll of fat, and cling to the groove, thus enhancing my ripply non-hourglass shape. So I do a lot of tugging and pulling, up, then down, then up again, hoping no one catches me in the act.

Then there's always the length issue. Sometimes if they are too short OR to baggy, you walk around all day with the crotch at your knees, waddling around like some sort of duck person. Or if they are too long, not only can you pull them up over your head, but in an ironic twist of spandex, material gathers and bunches at the knees and ankles, and you look ridiculously wrinkly.

I really don't know why I put myself through this day after day, year after year. I try to convince myself it's cute or sexy or something. But I think it's in my head. What guy is going to want to come over and try to figure out where the top of the tights end? "My god," he'll say. "Are they up to your bra?" And I'll have to say "Yes, and also bunched at my knees. Prrr baby, prrr. Take me now. But don't rip them."