will ferrell, elf, tights

I hate tights

I hate tights. I hate them. I don’t care how cold it is. I don’t care that my legs – which, incidentally, I am content to keep shaving and fake tanning throughout the winter rather than wear tights – look like plucked chickens. I don’t care that people constantly and annoyingly say, “Oooh aren’t you cold?” Oooh aren’t you boring? And, oooh aren’t you slightly sweaty around the nylon gusset? And oooh, isn’t that a ladder? And, oooh are your ankles wrinkly or is it the sagginess of your horrible tights?

I mean, I get claustrophobic even looking at tights. And they either fall down to sit just under the muffin top (hell, they manufacture a muffin top), or they are so vast and long that they sit just below the bra strap.

I know some people see tights as a sign of winter cosiness. Cosiness? Itchiness more like. And sweaty, slidey footedness. And gusset hanging down around the mid-thigh area-ness. But what kind of human woman wears hold-ups. To work? If you do then we salute you while not especially wanting to be friends with you. Pop socks? We will happily be your friend while advising you to… cease and desist. Where to go from pop socks? Downhill.

Everything else is all new-fangled and ‘you won’t even know I’m here’ with the stealth technology creep and innovative fibres and fabric and materials. So why do tights feel stuck in the Seventies? Why have they not evolved beyond office polyester? Why are tights not performing? It is all most disappointing. Until such a time as tights decide to join the 21st century, I’ll be the one with the goosebumps. Please leave me alone.

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