Tights

          There is an incredibly popular, albeit incredibly overused saying that bluntly proclaims karma's a bitch. Now, being the girl that I am who tries to see the best in everything and everyone, I think this is a little harsh. To be perfectly honest, you probably deserved that ketchup on your designer slacks/seventh consecutive parking ticket/infected pedicure because you were a bitch in the first place. In my opinion, I like to think of karma as a wise friend, someone who is not afraid to point out when you're wrong, to show you a world view you might not have been able to see through your prejudiced-colored glasses. 
          You see, this weird thing happens all the time between me and karma. Sometimes, I'll speak without thinking, judging something before really experiencing and appreciating it. Let's use handmade ukuleles as an example. I'll be in a conversation with an unsuspecting fan of these teeny guitars, and all of a sudden lash out irrationally and say, "Good God! I hate handmade ukuleles! I hate their size, I hate that tinny sound they make, I hate that they remind me of Hawaii, I hate the hipster kids who play them like a poor man's Zooey Deschanel. I hate everything about handmade ukuleles." This is where karma gets me good. Karma lets me go on hating handmade ukuleles for a little bit longer, normally between four to six months. Then, without warning or explanation, BAM. I become obsessed with them. I can't get enough handmade ukuleles. I listen to Iz on repeat day in and day out. I buy a miniature case for my own instrument so I can tote it around with me everywhere like a small dog. While my new obsession might be a bit... well, obsessive in the beginning, I will be proven once again that unfounded criticisms are no fun, or to borrow the words of another popular saying, "don't knock it until you've tried it."
          Karma knows no limits. Music, people, flavors of cream cheese, and (obviously) fashion. This is how I came to love tights. If you know me now, you'd think I was born with a pair of tights on. My legs are patterned, colored, or caught in a fishnet on a regular basis (and by regular basis I mean 6.5 days out of the week). I have approximately three pairs of jeans and seventeen pairs of tights. In the winter, one might assume I'd throw on some sweats and call it a day. False: I layer four pairs of tights and make that day my bitch. Surprisingly, this is not how it always was with my wardrobe. 
          When I was a very little lady, my mom would go all out on the outfits I wore to Sunday school. I called them my dancing-one-dresses and pretty-girl-shoes, for both the way that they made me feel and how the dresses blossomed out when I spun around in the sanctuary's lobby. Unfortunately, the ensemble a pretty girl wears (especially one prone to spontaneous dancing) is not made for the rambunctious activity of Sunday school, which is pretty much religious recess. There's running, jumping, duck-duck-goosing, cross-legged story time, ten second clean up, and a lot of that spinning until you wanted to puke that was previously mentioned. A little angel needed protection against any situation that may deem her unladylike and crude. A little angel needed tights.
          My six-year-old self begged to differ. I would do anything possible to get out of wearing an entire rainbow of Little L'eggs. Cry, lie that they didn't fit my chubby thighs, purposefully cause runs with a Lisa Frank pencil, soak them in a flammable liquid and cackle over the nylon/Lycra blend blaze (okay, I didn't really do that last one but would have had I the common household chemicals in the proper proportions). Tights may serve a purpose, and can even turn a tot into a trendsetter but let's be real: they're tight and itchy. On paper, they prove to be a woman's worst nightmare, and the nightmares children experience can echo into adulthood. Luckily, I said those beautiful three words early on in my youth: I hate tights. 
          I've been a changed woman ever since. I think tights are the leg wear to end all other leg wear. They can take a summer dress and make it acceptable for colder weather. They use the large expanse of skin on your legs to the fullest advantage. Recently, hand-painted tights have made a big splash on the scene, taking the patterned version to one of artistic talent. They are able to start conversations, having people asking where you bought them or how adventurous and fun they are, how only a fashion maven could pull them off successfully (which you are, and you do). Colored tights add that pop to an otherwise neutral outfit. A little black dress goes from classic to contemporary when you pair it with a neon purple or on-trend emerald nylon. Fishnets have been synonymous with foxy and fierce ever since they tangled around women's thighs in the late 1960s. One advertisement during that time claimed fishnets gave leg "more leg." My personal favorite type of leg wear is the thigh high. Held up by the slightly taboo but super sexy garter belt, thigh highs are the poster children for decadence. Every time I wear a pair, I feel incredibly powerful. While some assume that the modern use of thigh highs and garters is contained to the bedroom, I like to think of it as my own secret to share: I could show them off, or I could keep them to myself; the choice is entirely in my own hands.  Tights and nylons aren't just for the super femmes, either. Sometimes, I'll pair mine with my knee-high lace up boots, transforming cute or couture into kick-ass.  Tights can also give you that extra-coverage you need if the dress you bought for weekend clubbing is just a bit short for weekday club-sandwiches (I'm looking at you, Forever XXI). However, if you just can't wrap your mind around the idea of wrapping your legs in hosiery, do what the rationing fashion rebels did in the 1940s: draw a seam down the back of your calves with waterproof eyeliner. Legs for days, without the L'eggs.