Please forgive me, dear readers, for gabbing about pantyhose two days in a row on my blog. I know that many of you visit for the sheer randomness of it, and making it less random renders it more boring. However, the conclusion of the bondage tights saga is simply too good not to tell.
Well fortified with a meat breakfast of salami sandwiches, cheese and a full croissant with butter and jam, I decided to trek back to the department store this morning for the only pair of Wolford’s bondage tights remaining in this large city. The Wolford representative assured me of this only the night before when she directed me to one of two places that might have a pair. I found the smalls at the second place she sent me.
After tossing and turning all night over not buying them, I was ready to commit. Snow was streaming from the heavens as we left the hotel, what looked to my Southern eyes like an almost blizzard. Surely, the snowy loveliness meant that my mummified nylons would still be there?
We arrived at the full-to-bursting-with-humanity Ahlens and trudged to the hosiery section with the determination of starvation victims who hadn’t seen food in weeks. I rounded the corner and spotted the set of drawers that held my hose. I was almost home free.
Until I got there and saw a woman on her hands and knees holding my beloved package in her grubby hands. For close to ten minutes, she sat there on the floor, pawing through the drawers and comparing each and every pair to my bondage tights. She never found a pair that was equal, ponderously putting back each option in favor of my exquisite legwear.
I wanted to scream at her. Or, maybe I just wanted to scream in general. Getting ‘this close’ to having one of the sole remaining pairs of this gorgeous piece of fashion, only to have a woman in a puffy blue jacket buy them right in front of me was more than I could bear.
Desperately, I started going through all of the drawers again, one by one, hoping for THE miracle – another pair, stuck somewhere, just for me. I am not a patient person, and I am absolutely not a shopper, but I became both in those few minutes, believing that my longing for the thing would make it materialize just for me.
It didn’t work.
Sometime during my minor public meltdown, puffy-jacket-lady decided not to purchase my bondage tights. I was too oblivious in my self-pitying agony to notice this fact. Another woman of Asian description was moving in for the kill. MTM, however, saw her put them back in the drawer at the exact same moment.
The outcome was better than a ‘hail Mary’ pass during the last five seconds of the fourth quarter of a football game between two major rivals, with the score tied and the championship determined by whether someone is on the other end of that spinning pigskin. MTM flung his whole person at that drawer, like the championship was riding on his catching those bondage tights in his hands. When he stood up, he held them out to me, winded and grinning from ear to ear.
And, we ran to the cash register and bought them as fast as we could.