Tuesday, December 22, 2009
I pulled on a pair of black wool tights today and realized I hadn't worn them for two years. I don't quite know how I knew this, or thought of it, but the last time I wore them was in London. Today, I pulled them on and felt as if I were preparing for the day in another life, in another place. A small, quiet burst of unexplained happiness ushered through me as I thought about how I would get dressed in my tiny flat. When we traveled to Berlin, I layered them everyday under trousers. When we missed the Eurostar home from Paris, I slept in them in our little hotel room across from the train station and went to work in them the next day. Why is so much joy tied to a pair of footless tights? Why do I not have this association with other articles of clothing? More importantly, why haven't they been worn for two years?