Monday, October 20, 2008

Wardrobe Malfunctions Not Involving Janet Jackson or Nipples

We attend a wedding!

The DNB is one of ten groomsmen in his step-brother's wedding. It's in the evening, so black hose are in order. And it's in another state, so a backup pair is necessary. I am beyond prepared.

I lounge in our hotel room as the DNB gets ready. He has to go downstairs early for pictures, and then I will have the hairspray and shimmery body lotion to myself. Finally dressed, he reaches into his bag for his black socks. He feels around. A look of panic spreads over his face as he begins flinging clothing out onto the floor. There are no black socks.

"I swear I packed them," he insists.

"Like how you packed so well when we went to Chicago?"

It was early in our relationship, and we went to Chicago with another couple for a long weekend. We made plans to usher for a Blue Man Group show in order to see the performance for free. My girlfriend and I lingered in an Origins store while the boys changed into the required black pants and white shirts. As we met up with them before walking into the theater, I remember second-guessing my entire relationship. The DNB's pants were too short by at least 2 inches, which only served to highlight his bright white socks. He told me later that he had forgotten to pack black pants and socks, and had to borrow extra pairs from our much shorter male friend. At least he knew how ridiculous he looked. It was the one redeeming element.

"What am I supposed to do?" he asks me now, eyes darting around the hotel room.

"You'll have to wear mine," I say simply, peeling them off and handing them to him. I'd been wearing them since 4:45 that morning, when we got up to leave for the airport.

He tentatively puts them on. The heel is halfway down his foot. "This is unbelievably disgusting."

Crisis averted, the DNB leaves to attend to his groomsmanly duties. He messages me with periodic updates: "No pooping" and "We're just janging [sic] out eating sandwiches." A while later, with my makeup applied and hair big, I pull up my hose.

And this is the part of the story that men will not understand. Because men do nothing delicately. They do not know how very precarious hose can be. They don't know that the slightest snag on a fingernail can create a run from from toe to waist. But I do, and so I'm careful. I remove all of my rings and cautiously use my fingers to ease the hose up my legs.

So predictably, the hose run. Annoyed, I reach for my backup pair. I am the veritable goddess of forethought, I tell myself. Except, the hose look shorter than normal. Perhaps they're folded? Oh God, they aren't folded. Crap, crap, crap.

Instead of hose, I've bought a backup pair of "thigh shapers." Now I'm not saying my thighs don't need shaping. I'm just saying that at that very moment, they needed black hose more.

"I need you to go to the hotel gift shop and buy me black hose," I message the DNB. I feel an imminent freak out coming on.

"K," he messages back. "What kind? Knee highs?"

I stare at my phone. Knee highs? Did he seriously just ask that? "NO," I write back.

Minutes later, he walks into the room, and I sigh with relief. "Thank you thank you thank you," I tell him. "I was beginning to sweat."

I scramble into the new hose, doing the knee-bending hopping dance you must do to get them on. Only they won't go up all the way. I grab the package. They are sized for someone approximately 5'3".

"I'm too tall!" I shriek to the DNB. "They aren't long enough!"

He looks at me sympathetically. "Do you want the knee highs?" he asks.

I tell him as politely as I can that he may leave now and that I will see him downstairs later.

There are no scissors, no extra elastic, no garter belts to work with. I pull up gently. The crotch remains just above my knees. I try to channel MacGyver and come up empty. I have fifteen minutes until the wedding starts.

Finally, with five minutes to spare, I make my way into the hotel ballroom. The DNB stands just outside it, lined up with the other groomsman. He looks inquisitively at my legs, and the black hose I am wearing. I stop and stand on my tiptoes to whisper into his ear.

"I am SAGGING my pantyhose."

His eyes widen. I sashay off with all the confidence I can muster, hoping no one can tell that the waist of my hose sits just under my rear.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I am laughing so hard right now. I really think you have a future in writing...

book club jess

S said...

Thanks, Jess, and welcome to our crazy world!