I’m going to the biggest convention of mystery authors in the world next week.
I tell you that, so I can tell you this. I had to buy new stockings. Purchasing and then subsequently wearing new stockings is, I’m pretty sure about this, proof God isn’t really all that fond of me. Like maybe I was okay for awhile as a kid, but then something went wrong, and now as punishment: stockings.
Just in case you’ve never purchased stockings – i.e. in case you’re a man without transvestite proclivities – there is a chart on the back of the package featuring an X and Y axis, height going one way, weight going the other. The idea is that you will pinpoint the spot at which your measurements intersect, and that will fall in one of the shaded areas that indicate what size pantyhose you should buy.
I say it again.
Guess what, Hanes? My height and weight don’t fall within one of those handy shaded areas, leaving me to decide between purchasing hose a size too short and walking around the convention hotel with the crotch around my knees or buying hose too big, leading to an unattractive bunching situation.
Oh yes. Look out fellow writers, sexy is coming to town, and she’s got the panty panel of her tights around her knee caps.