Times are tight. Money is tight. Tights are tight. Tight as in just where do you get tights?
Before we go a sentence further, let me make it sparkling clear that I have no idea who that guy over on the right might be, none whatsoever. What I do know is that he might want to consider being ashamed of himself when he gets a minute.
Never thinking of being in the position to need a pair of tights, I'd never have given them a second thought if they weren't necessary for my outfit. Really, I didn't, and still don't, see many options.
All I knew about tights came from having two sisters who wore them as part of their Catholic school uniforms way back when. Tights appeared to be a sort of unattractive thick pantyhose, worn by most Catholic school girls in the colder months, at least while in grade school. High school brought about a conversion to knee socks, even on frigid mornings. I remember those rosy red knees which were probably minutes away from frostbite. You do, of course, remember Catholic schools, right?
To get back to the start of things, let me say that we, Carol and I, were part of a lovely event where costumes were mandatory. Admittedly, I haven't been into costumes and Halloween since fifth or sixth grade. Then, yep, I was really a big Halloween fan. Somehow time ate away at the dressing up for Halloween routine and it came to be more of an annoyance when necessary than the fun it once was. For me, it came full circle.
Last weekend we set aside time on Saturday afternoon to shop for costumes. More accurately, to shop for a costume rental. I don't see taking the plunge and buying a costume, because any costume that isn't cheesy, corny, and stupid-looking is gonna cost some serious money.
"Look, I'm going to take the first costume in the door that fits, OK?" That's what I told Carol.
I was serious. Spending hours poking through racks of costumes just doesn't appeal to me. I wanted to come home and get a nap. Typical guy, you say? Yes, I am, thank you. A good nap is where I stay with the pack, stick with the flock, do not stray from the pride, and don't feel like getting all "mavericky." I love a good nap.
First thing in the door that fits... was the plan. It worked. Fate? A planetary alignment? Dumb luck? Whatever.
There it was, just hanging high behind the counter.
My guess, Carol's guess, Barbara the shopkeeper's guess, is that it was a Henry VIII outfit. Complete with hat and swinging medallions, I still think it was Henry VIII. Others, not so.
A couple people at the party thought I was Columbus. Hearing that, I decided to go with something a bit more obscure, like Vasco deGama or Ferdinand Magellan, maybe even Amerigo Vespucci. I considered using Mercator, but couldn't recall his first name, which I now know was Gerardus.
"Columbus? No, no, no, my dear lady. Can't you see that I am Gerardus Mercator?"
Let's just settle on the costume being 15th - 16th century upper class, sort of foppish, and definitely requiring some type of undergarment to work properly.
I figured tights. Look at Henry over there on the left. Tights, right? Or whatever passed for tights then. (Anyone remember Men In Tights, a Mel Brooks film?)
Wearing tights is one decision, finding them is one dilemma.
Best guess would have me spending at least three hours over the last week hopping store to store looking for, well, big tights for a big woman, since men's tights don't exist. If they do, you can't just grab a pair over at CVS while picking up that beard coloring kit, the one you didn't use. Another story.
Five stores, one pair of tights. Not the color I was after, and not the size either. Carol found a pair of one-size-fits-all tights at a big-box store that wouldn't fit Barbie, or more germane to the present discussion, wouldn't fit Ken.
That I managed to get my feet, ankles, calves, knees, thighs, hips, rump and waist into this two-legged elastic torture device was remarkable...but I did. With grunts, groans, snarls, mumbles, and obscenities, I wiggled tights all the way up beyond my waist, just for good measure.
Two of our dogs ran from me, they looked scared, like I was a stranger. The smartest of our dogs, and there is always one, knew me tights or no tights, Tudor look or not.
The cats? They didn't care. Please, do they ever?
And off we went to the costume party (where I was the "roastee") and we had a ball dancing the night away, with me taking a moment from time to time to pull up my tights.
If you have a few seconds, take a look.
