Moata Jones and the tights of doom

Yesterday my attire for the day included a pair of tights I'd bought the other week in preparation for cooling Christchurch temperatures. I'd noticed at the time that they were "firm control opaque tights" but I pretty much just thought that meant they were a bit thicker than average. It wasn't until I went to pull them on yesterday morning that I noticed just how tight they were. Putting them on I suddenly understood how it might feel to be slowly consumed by a boa constrictor if the snake in question had forgotten to render you unconscious first.  Actually, make that two boa constrictors.

I've been putting on (and removing) my own tights for some years now and I fancy I've managed to pretty much get it down to something approaching a fluid motion (or series thereof). This was not like that. There was grimacing and discomfort and mild bad language. At some point it became apparent that I had reached "the point of no return". It seemed inadvisable to continue...and yet going back didn't seem an option either. So I persevered onwards and upwards.

After successfully (if you could call it that) squeezing myself into these black nylon/elastane tubes of torture I examined the packet, which informed me in slightly smaller print that they came "with a firm control brief that slims & shapes". Oh, is that what it's doing? I just thought it was really needy.

I decide to give the tights the benefit of the doubt and wear them all day, partly because you always have to suffer for beauty and partly because as difficult as it was to get them on, getting them off is probably going to be even more time consuming and I don't want to be late for work.

Eventually I acclimatised to the odd band of pressure around my mid-section but things went awry when I swung around in my office chair to converse with a colleague. I was leaning to the left when I felt an unrolling sensation down my left side. I froze, uncertain how far said rolling would go. It stopped just above the hip but for a terrifying moment I imagined that my womanly curves might have proven too much for industrial strength hose. Luckily not.

Yesterday my attire for the day included a pair of tights I'd bought the other week in preparation for cooling Christchurch temperatures. I'd noticed at the time that they were "firm control opaque tights" but I pretty much just thought that meant they were a bit thicker than average. It wasn't until I went to pull them on yesterday morning that I noticed just how tight they were. Putting them on I suddenly understood how it might feel to be slowly consumed by a boa constrictor if the snake in question had forgotten to render you unconscious first.  Actually, make that two boa constrictors.

I've been putting on (and removing) my own tights for some years now and I fancy I've managed to pretty much get it down to something approaching a fluid motion (or series thereof). This was not like that. There was grimacing and discomfort and mild bad language. At some point it became apparent that I had reached "the point of no return". It seemed inadvisable to continue...and yet going back didn't seem an option either. So I persevered onwards and upwards.

After successfully (if you could call it that) squeezing myself into these black nylon/elastane tubes of torture I examined the packet, which informed me in slightly smaller print that they came "with a firm control brief that slims & shapes". Oh, is that what it's doing? I just thought it was really needy.

I decide to give the tights the benefit of the doubt and wear them all day, partly because you always have to suffer for beauty and partly because as difficult as it was to get them on, getting them off is probably going to be even more time consuming and I don't want to be late for work.

Eventually I acclimatised to the odd band of pressure around my mid-section but things went awry when I swung around in my office chair to converse with a colleague. I was leaning to the left when I felt an unrolling sensation down my left side. I froze, uncertain how far said rolling would go. It stopped just above the hip but for a terrifying moment I imagined that my womanly curves might have proven too much for industrial strength hose. Luckily not.

But worse was to come. As any woman (or cyclist) will tell you, toilet breaks tend to become more complicated when wearing any kind of tights. These ones really didn't like being rolled down. They gripped me at the knees like a vice. Actually more like a really super-tight rubber band. I wondered if I sat too long and eventually lost the feeling in my legs, the numbness would make removing "Tightzilla" easier or more difficult. As it was, I was grateful that the next cubicle was empty so no one could hear the small sounds of exertion that were coming from my efforts to re-establish control of my undergarments.

"But," I hear you exclaim, "did they make you look slimmer?" Not really, but they did keep my pins warm. And I'm still wearing them because I'm afraid to take them off.  I may have to be buried in them.

But seriously folks, have you, or someone you know, ever had to wrangle their underthings? Or suffered some kind of "catastrophic failure"? There must be some beaut (but clean) stories out there that you can share.