I was bored, on the tube, and entertaining myself, as one does, by casting a critical eye on fellow commuters. The pink polka dots caught my eye.
I think I actually grimaced.*
Pink polka dots**. No, no, no. Or were they white polka dots on pink? I don’t remember. But my reaction is the same: No, no, no.
Then I noticed the run in her tights which caused my heart to leap from my chest, run over and give her a big ‘there, there’ hug. There is almost nothing as heart-wrenching as a run in tights. Sheer stockings are one thing: they are flimsy, showy stuff, which I expect to run. A conspiracy against the pocketbooks of women.
Thick, warm, functional winter tights are another matter. I have countless pairs where a season of rubbing, against what I can only imagine is an abnormally sharp big toe, erodes the seam, leaving a gaping hole through which the very same sharp big toe will uncomfortable poke. On occasion I sew up those holes and use the tights for another season. No one knows but me (and the Internet).
An exposed run in thick, warm, functional winter tights is a tragedy.
Polka dots make me grimace; exposed runs in tights make me bite my bottom lip.
When my heart was done consoling the erstwhile fashion victim, it turned to chastise me.
You’re a right bitch. So what if she’s wearing pink polka dots?! Maybe they make her feel good.
It was only when I was giving myself this scolding that it struck me: this woman didn’t need my sympathy and wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about my polka-dot related scorn. This woman was brave and strong and self-possessed. This woman, afterall, was publicly not afraid of “vagina”.
* As if I had remembered a bad drunken moment from the night before or smelled something noxious or had some kind of belly pain.
**Polka dots on a scarf, which is sadly not visible in my photos.