Cotton tights

I'm reminded today of Ramona Quimby, scabby-kneed heroine of my youth, who was fascinated by the continually sagging pantyhose of her schoolteacher. She would watch the hose crumple around her teacher's knees and pool in a nylon puddle at her ankles as the schoolday wore on.

My black cotton tights made their first appearance today, too. They are thick cotton and long, and so they wrinkle a bit. Or rather, they "slouch," in the modern lingo, reminiscent of Prada's highly coveted stockings sent down the runway a season ago. (Of course, Prada would be the design house to give librarian, intellectual frump a sexy edge.)

So I'm rather pleased with the cotton tights. I'm pleased about standing quite literally between two disparate moments in my life, and seeing some continuity.