rules about tights + contact solution
The raggedy-to-fancy holiday dressing spectrum needs revisiting.
When I was a kid, holiday dressing meant tights. I mostly hated them—they were uncomfortable and scratch. And as the younger sister, the hand-me-downs tights were often too small and demanded a truly sophisticated low-crotch waddle. But, scratchy tights were also a sign that fanciness and fun were ahead.
There were rules about these things in my house: matching dresses, tights, and fancy shoes were mandatory for certain events. There were even rules about the rules: shoes had to have a buckle until I was 8 years old, and no heels on my shoes—of any kind! not even half an inch!—were allowed until we were 12. These rules felt arbitrary and meaningless, and I was sure I would never impose such restrictions on my own children.
I'm raising my kids in Seattle, a town more Patagonia than patent leather, which has made breaking free from rigid dress codes easier than expected. Moving here from Atlanta, where people Dressed Up with the intensity of Southern garden party attendees, I was confused at first. I may have had the thought, "these children look raggedy," more than once. I may have muttered, "pajamas are not pants," a time or two. I may have, yes, wondered where the fancy tights had disappeared to.
Because my kids have lived in Seattle their whole lives, fancy dressing is a bit mysterious to them. My son put a belt on for the first time ever recently. The extremely elegant event that demanded he step it up? His Mr. Burns Halloween costume.
As a generally lazy person and Covid parent, my parenting bar is low. I can, quite frankly, not be arsed about many of the things that my parents cared about. But I feel, in this Seattle sea of soft fibers that absolutely do NOT make you feel like you pooped your pants like too-small tights do, a pull toward the formality of my youth.
I'm considering rules about dressing up as a family. I decided it needed to start with me, so last night I put on some fancy pants for a party. Looking in the mirror, my shoes felt too shiny. My pants were new, tight. They were uncomfortable. I remembered that uncomfortable things often mean fun is ahead, and I headed out to the party—no waddle in sight.
THIS MADE ME LAUGH/WANNA AVOID MALLS
Thoughts and prayers to all the retail workers, and to all the people who accidentally wear red shirts to Target and get mistaken for Target employees (Why, why, why do I keep doing this?). Tis the season for morons in public. Happy holidays of absolute madness and chaos. I hope you get to dress up for something fancy, and that your tights fit right.
xo
Kathleen
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You looked amazing last night! Every night!
the tights of our childhood were a TRUE crime. So itchy! So many drop crotch looks.