Chirky

I am purposefully not drinking any water today, other than what is minimally acceptable to prevent me from slipping into a dehydration-induced coma, though perhaps that coma sounds alluring considering how busy I am at work, how messy my house is due to the ribbons and bows and rolls upon rolls of wrapping paper strewn around the living room because I have yet to learn the "clean as you go" method, how many gifts I must wrap and which I cannot wrap because they STILL HAVEN'T ARRIVED VIA THE UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE, and speaking of, I'm in a fight with the USPS - we're not getting along so well right now.

I am avoiding the restroom like the plague because I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO PULL DOWN MY PANTYHOSE, if only because it took me TEN MINUTES TO PULL THEM UP THIS MORNING, AND WHEN I SAY, "PULL THEM UP," REALLY, IT WAS LIKE PULLING A CRANE UP THE SIDE OF A TWENTY-STORY BUILDING WITH ONLY A THICK ROPE THAT KEPT SLIPPING BETWEEN MY HANDS, AND WHICH CAUSED ROPE-BURN ON MY PALMS. IT WAS THAT HARD.

Roger sat in bed and watched me during this process, the process wherein I started sweating, not like a pig because pigs don't have sweat glands and that phrase doesn't even make any sense, but the sweating more resembled what you might see on a late-night BET video. I was sweating and wriggling and was nearing explicatives, AND I HADN'T EVEN BEEN ABLE TO PULL THEM PAST MY KNEES YET, when Roger asked, "Are you sure those are your size?"

I gave him "the look" and then checked the chart on the box to make sure I had purchased the correct pair, and I had, and now I must complain to the Hanes factory and to the Internet because these pantyhose are more like a children's size small than an adult's size CD. This morning, I lost all hope that Roger would only see me as a perfectly-maintained lady, because he had witnessed the wriggling and the sweating, and he couldn't help but stare in disbelief, despite me snapping, "Do you HAVE to stare at me?" Except if I had been in his position, I would have stared such a sight, too, and right now I'm actually considering buying him pantyhose and making him wear them for a day, just so he can empathize with me.

I finally did pull them up all the way, but not without putting a run in them, BECAUSE WHEN HAVE I EVER PUT ON A PAIR OF PANTYHOSE WITHOUT RUNNING THEM? And after I accomplished the morning's task, I announced to Roger, "I hope I don't have to go to the bathroom today. If I do, I'm totally cutting a hole in the crotch."

There's no way I can pull these up again, IN A BATHROOM STALL, without (a) wasting ten minutes of my already-busy day, (b) all of my coworkers wondering why I'm wrestling an alligator in the women's restroom and (c) four pounds of deodorant or perfume to mask the sweating that will invariably occur.