This post brought to you by Mercury in retrograde.
Which was supposed to end last week. Right?
Due to lingering effects from this nutty time of year when even tying your shoes becomes trying I’m going to throwback to 2003 when I wrote a poem about a particularly harrowing experience with tights. Because right now-the tights are a metaphor for my life.
THE TIGHTS ARE MY LIFE.
ODE TO THE TIGHTS
My tights began a simple pair
Cotton, black, no runs anywhere.
But as usage tupped times two and three
My tights began to turn on me.
A battle waged and as I fought
within the tights my foot got caught.
All tangled in the black abyss
things began to go amiss.
My balance gone, and patience too
I hopped around inside the loo.
Though struggle, struggle as I may
the tights got the best of me that day.
On the floor in a frenzied heap
I gave up and began to weep.
Mascara streamed, Lorinda said, “Oh hon,”
as I cried and admitted,
“The tights…they won.”
(Shout out to Lorinda who stuck with me well beyond our college years and who has seen me through a number of beyond embarrassing experiences. I love you, lady.)