Today's outfit is notable solely for what it is not--it is not a skirt. It is pants.
And pants are good and pants are truly just fine (pants pass! pants paaaaass!), but I like wearing skirts or dresses to Mass. My fleece-lined tights (thick as sheet rock but comfy as leggings) got plenty of use this winter, but PRAISE BE TO HEAVEN it's now just a titch warmer outside. So this morning I ripped open a new pack of black control top nylons instead.
Once I shimmied into them, taking great care not to snag the dang things before even getting any use out of them, I honestly thought they felt ok. On went the skirt and top. Cute! Dressy. Good.
10 minutes later I'm back in my bedroom stripping everything off.
Sean: "Why are you changing? You looked nice."
Me: "Because I feel like a snake swallowed my bottom half and is now in the process of digesting me."
Oh, the squeezing. The constriction! I've always had an aversion to tight things around my middle, but I kind of thought by now I would have outgrown it. A grown woman is able to wear nylons, and may even be happy or comfortable doing so, I thought.
I am either not a grown woman or an odd one. Whatever.
My options were either donning the fleece tights and sweating through Mass, or giving up and pulling on my pinstripe New York and Co. pants from six years ago. As Simcha would simply state: Pants.
So until it's deemed appropriate to go bare-legged (the end of March? Maybe? Early April, please?), I'll be rocking the wide-legged trousers on Sundays.
Bonfire (albeit a very quick one) at my house tonight for the offending hosiery.
Off to FLAP where I hope you will find other ladies so pleased with their outfits, their shoes flew off from abundant attire happiness.