Monday, February 27, 2012


For reasons we needn't discuss, I have a pair of crotchless tights. I always end up traveling with them - the rolled eyes warring with the need for enough tights for 2 weeks until they end up nestled in a bag.

One would think (or at least I would) that it matters not whether tights have that particular scrap of material, especially when one wears panties.

So after a working breakfast, I pounced on my break-time opportunity to wander around the countryside in Île-de-France in my pretty striped dress and shiny black flats and admittedly-crotchless tights. They're my favorite brand in the correct size and so it all should have been fine - the walk, the meetings, the dining out.

It was not fine.

I was wandering along, breathing the air, seeing the sights, thinking 'who's in France? Katie is! Katie is!' when I noticed my tights were falling down a bit. 'No matter,' I thought good-naturedly and glanced around before tugging them back into place.

Apparently that middle part offers some vital structural integrity because I continued to blush and tug and mutter with increasing annoyance at the garment.

"I am not slutty," I told them in an angry whisper after I paused at a bus stop - charming as it was being wooden-framed and near a wall dripping with ivy - to yank at them once more. "Well," I considered, wanting to be honest, "not at the moment, anyway."

And after those wondrous displays of intelligence, maturity and grace, I returned to lead a meeting and attend 3 more. I asked questions and offered advice and networked with people I sincerely enjoy.

Between trips to the restroom to readjust my hosiery.

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