If you know anything about my Halloween costume choices, you know that I
typically always show some leg and therefore, purchase a pair of “magic pantyhose” in the Hooters handicapped bathroom stall each year (here’s a video). And every year, I ruin said ‘hose. In 2009, I can’t quite pinpoint what happened, but I think it may have had something to do with me dressing up as Beyonce, learning the entire Single Ladies dance and doing it every chance I got. I didn’t walk anywhere. I danced. And my tights paid the price.
In 2010, not only did the pantyhose rip at some point, but they were covered in fake blood from my “mangled surfer” getup.
This year was a little different. I had plans to do a group costume with Andrea and Co. (a safari massacre if you must know) and was actually going to go bare-legged since I just got a spray tan. But since my group wasn’t showing up to the party until later, I figured I would whip out the ol’ Sasha Fierce ‘stume, wear it until they arrived, and then do a switcheroo. Well Beyonce requires a leotard and I just couldn’t go full
retard leotard with no tights. But, unfortunately, I had no time on Saturday to trek downtown to Hooters and pick up a pair. What…was a girl to do?
So I went to the stripper store: Looks of Atlanta, conveniently located next to Tattletales on Piedmont Road. I was SURE they would carry some form of tan, Hooters-esque stockings, alongside their “evening wear.”
What I ended up with was a pair of black, “One Size Fits Most,” $15 pantyhose with rhinestones up the backs of the legs. No, they were not crotchless.
I got home, pulled them on very gingerly (stripper gear is not of the highest quality, contrary to popular belief), put on my leotard and the rest of my getup and headed to the party.
The pantyhose were holding up well and a couple slutty-looking girls even complimented me on the rhinestone bedazzling. I was hopeful. I thought I might make it through my favorite holiday this year with a pair of tights I might actually be able to wear again (at least for a future Halloween or amateur night at the Pink Pony).
But then, it happened. I found a megaphone (a real, professional one) and it catapulted me into “I-must-get-up-on-every-possible-stage-at-this-party-and-yell-ridiculous-things-from-the-megaphone” mode. I went upstairs, danced on and yelled from the stage successfully, then beelined outside to the tent where DJ Madflip was spinning. I got up on the stage once. Success. I got down, danced on the floor, ate a grilled cheese from the Tastee Truck, yelled “Joel Darby is fat” into the megaphone (which is especially F’d up since he bought me the grilled cheese), and then decided I wanted one last hurrah on the stage.
I put one leg up on the platform, and….RRRRRRRIP. Right in the crotch-slash-inner-thigh.
It was awkward. It was even more awkward because I immediately had to bring my leg down and scurry away with my head hung low to check out the damage.
Now let it be known that I’m totally ok with my body (most days), but if there is one problem area I’m not crazy about, it’s my inner thighs. So to have that part of my body completely exposed for all to see was not exactly how I wanted to end the night. I was definitely going to need to drink more. And apparently spill on my tights.
I drank some more. And the hole got bigger.
After the party was over, I shut down Pool Hall where the rip got even larger (sorry, no photographic proof of that). Then after that, I ate at Landmark Diner where I remember looking down and pretty much seeing my entire right leg exposed.
The final look when I got home:
Welp…now they’re crotchless.
Next year, maybe I should just wear pants.
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