Leggo My Leggings
(One of my favorite pieces of all time!)
My stirrup pants had too much giddyap and go!
Liz Curtis Higgs
The first time I saw a pair of leggings, they were on someone else's body—that of the Twiggy-sized teen seated next to me in a crowded doctor's office. With her huge t-shirt and long, red legs, she looked utterly charming and altogether comfy.
"Do they feel as good as they look?" I asked.
"You bet." She nodded emphatically, pinching a bit of fabric and stretching it out. "See? It springs right back. No sagging. No wrinkling."
Since my knees both sag and wrinkle, I was duly impressed with her Lycra-swathed limbs.
"What do you call them?"
"Leggings," she informed me, jumping to her feet when the receptionist called her name. "You oughta try 'em. They come in your size, too."
Cheeky.
I watched her go, wondering what sort of fashion statement my older-but-wider body might make in such a getup. Fire-engine red was out of the question, of course, but a nifty navy, a dove gray, a basic black—couldn't I pull that off? Especially if an oversized shirt fell well below my knees?
Well, well, well below.
When a favorite spring catalog arrived on my doorstep featuring leggings on page five—in my size!—I knew it was meant to be.
"Send me three pairs," I informed the woman taking my order by phone. "Black, gray, blue."
"Those colors are on back order, ma'am." Figures. "Until when?" I sighed.
"September. All we have in stock is red."
Uh-oh. I imagined my substantial thighs encased like firecrackers ready to explode. Or worse, like a pair of beefy summer sausages fresh from the grill.
I wanted to try a pair of leggings soooo badly, but red?
"They're on sale," the saleswoman tempted.
"Sold."
"Regular or stirrup?"
She had me there. "Stir what up?"
She explained that leggings came in ankle length or with a stirrup that slips over one's foot. "It prevents the pants from scooting up your leg." Was she suggesting my leggings could shrink into capri pants, then bike shorts, ending up as spandex underwear?
"Definitely stirrups," I decided. "One pair, my size, in red."
When my order arrived—in a #10 envelope—I slipped the leggings out of the package and held them up. They looked like something a child might wear. An especially small child. At Christmas. Still, that was my size printed on the label.
After wrestling them on, I was delirious with the results. They fit!
I quickly found an oversized, black-and-red t-shirt that almost reached my knees and matched perfectly. Just the thing for traveling, I decided. For the first time in a long time, I looked forward to my next out-of-town trip.
That fateful morning dawned sunny and cool—a legging kind of day if there ever was one. Dressed and packed, I faced the mirror one last time, hoping to quell a few nagging doubts. Were they too bright? Too tight? Did I look like I was headed for a pajama party? Whatever. I grinned at my reflection. "TWA, take me away."
Truth be told, I got a few odd looks at the ticket counter. Comfortable as I was, I had no intentions of fretting over their obvious gawking. The first leg (so to speak) of my trip was a breeze. When my plane landed in St. Louis, I bounded through the jetway and checked the monitor for my gate. Drat. The other end of the world. Ah, but with my zippy new duds, I'd be strolling in style, no?
Uh … no.
I started down the busy concourse with a carry-on bag in one hand, a bulging computer case in the other, and a mega-purse dangling from my shoulder. I picked up the pace when I heard the boarding announcement for my flight departing from Gate 33.
Without warning, disaster struck.
Maybe it was the speed with which I was traveling. Or my long-legged stride. Whatever the reason, with stirrups and gravity working against me, my leggings suddenly moved in the wrong direction: down.
The crotch dropped first. Silently, relentlessly, it started moving south. With both hands full, I was in no position to stop it. Anyway, a quick stop-and-yank would be beyond tacky. By Gate 10, the thing was halfway to my knees. Starting to panic, I slowed down. By Gate 15, I was on full-tilt duck walk. By Gate 19, it was more turtle-like than ducky. My spirits were sinking right along with my traitorous leggings. I fumed, mentally composing a letter to the manufacturer. "Dear Sirs: What goes up must not come down."
I checked my watch. Oh, no! Ten minutes! I checked my leggings. Oh, no! Ten more inches! By Gate 22, I was in deep trouble. The waistband was wrapped around my knees. The fabric that used to cover my knees circled my ankles. I was reduced to walking like a geisha girl, moving forward with mincing steps. Passengers hurried past me—yes, snickering—while I tried to look nonchalant. No easy task when your face matches your bright red leggings.
Make that anklings.
"Let them hold the plane," I muttered, pressing my luggage against my knees and heading for safety. I ducked in the doorway marked Women—then stopped short when I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror by the sink. I'd been waddling through a crowded airport sporting nothing but bare legs and a t-shirt.
Leggings no more, they were now mere fetters for the fashion inept. Why not step out of them, you say? Not an option. That would leave my unshaven legs sticking out—pasty white as only spring legs can be, and flabby besides. Dropping my bags in a heap on the restroom floor, I gathered up my limp leggings and yanked them back in place. Only five gates to go. Could they stay up long enough to get me on that plane?
"Got any safety pins?"
The voice behind me belonged to a resourceful-looking woman wearing a friendly smile—and leggings. A sister! She was already digging in her purse, and soon produced a handful of silver safety pins.
"Pin the wasteband to your bra," she instructed, pointing me toward an empty stall. "Works like a charm." And so it did.
Firmly anchored and stretched to the max, my leggings and I took off at a full sprint for Gate 33 with nary a sag. Relieved to find the door still open and my seat waiting for me, I collapsed into 11-c and leaned back. And screamed.
The flight attendant was there in a heartbeat. "Ma'am, are you okay?"
"S-sure," I said, gingerly easing forward, trying to escape the sprung metal point. I never knew safety pins could be so unsafe. "I'm gonna need a Band-Aid."
"Certainly." She rummaged around her first aid kit. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." I winced when the second pin stabbed me in the front. "Duct tape. Preferably red."
She held up a ubiquitous roll. "Sorry. All I've got is this."
Dove gray. "Perfect."
Liz Curtis Higgs, a TCW columnist, is the author of 15 books and one novella, "Fine Print," featured in the anthology Three Weddings and a Giggle (Multnomah). She lives with her husband and two children in Kentucky.
Liz Curtis Higgs
The first time I saw a pair of leggings, they were on someone else's body—that of the Twiggy-sized teen seated next to me in a crowded doctor's office. With her huge t-shirt and long, red legs, she looked utterly charming and altogether comfy.
"Do they feel as good as they look?" I asked.
"You bet." She nodded emphatically, pinching a bit of fabric and stretching it out. "See? It springs right back. No sagging. No wrinkling."
Since my knees both sag and wrinkle, I was duly impressed with her Lycra-swathed limbs.
"What do you call them?"
"Leggings," she informed me, jumping to her feet when the receptionist called her name. "You oughta try 'em. They come in your size, too."
Cheeky.
I watched her go, wondering what sort of fashion statement my older-but-wider body might make in such a getup. Fire-engine red was out of the question, of course, but a nifty navy, a dove gray, a basic black—couldn't I pull that off? Especially if an oversized shirt fell well below my knees?
Well, well, well below.
When a favorite spring catalog arrived on my doorstep featuring leggings on page five—in my size!—I knew it was meant to be.
"Send me three pairs," I informed the woman taking my order by phone. "Black, gray, blue."
"Those colors are on back order, ma'am." Figures. "Until when?" I sighed.
"September. All we have in stock is red."
Uh-oh. I imagined my substantial thighs encased like firecrackers ready to explode. Or worse, like a pair of beefy summer sausages fresh from the grill.
I wanted to try a pair of leggings soooo badly, but red?
"They're on sale," the saleswoman tempted.
"Sold."
"Regular or stirrup?"
She had me there. "Stir what up?"
She explained that leggings came in ankle length or with a stirrup that slips over one's foot. "It prevents the pants from scooting up your leg." Was she suggesting my leggings could shrink into capri pants, then bike shorts, ending up as spandex underwear?
"Definitely stirrups," I decided. "One pair, my size, in red."
When my order arrived—in a #10 envelope—I slipped the leggings out of the package and held them up. They looked like something a child might wear. An especially small child. At Christmas. Still, that was my size printed on the label.
After wrestling them on, I was delirious with the results. They fit!
I quickly found an oversized, black-and-red t-shirt that almost reached my knees and matched perfectly. Just the thing for traveling, I decided. For the first time in a long time, I looked forward to my next out-of-town trip.
That fateful morning dawned sunny and cool—a legging kind of day if there ever was one. Dressed and packed, I faced the mirror one last time, hoping to quell a few nagging doubts. Were they too bright? Too tight? Did I look like I was headed for a pajama party? Whatever. I grinned at my reflection. "TWA, take me away."
Truth be told, I got a few odd looks at the ticket counter. Comfortable as I was, I had no intentions of fretting over their obvious gawking. The first leg (so to speak) of my trip was a breeze. When my plane landed in St. Louis, I bounded through the jetway and checked the monitor for my gate. Drat. The other end of the world. Ah, but with my zippy new duds, I'd be strolling in style, no?
Uh … no.
I started down the busy concourse with a carry-on bag in one hand, a bulging computer case in the other, and a mega-purse dangling from my shoulder. I picked up the pace when I heard the boarding announcement for my flight departing from Gate 33.
Without warning, disaster struck.
Maybe it was the speed with which I was traveling. Or my long-legged stride. Whatever the reason, with stirrups and gravity working against me, my leggings suddenly moved in the wrong direction: down.
The crotch dropped first. Silently, relentlessly, it started moving south. With both hands full, I was in no position to stop it. Anyway, a quick stop-and-yank would be beyond tacky. By Gate 10, the thing was halfway to my knees. Starting to panic, I slowed down. By Gate 15, I was on full-tilt duck walk. By Gate 19, it was more turtle-like than ducky. My spirits were sinking right along with my traitorous leggings. I fumed, mentally composing a letter to the manufacturer. "Dear Sirs: What goes up must not come down."
I checked my watch. Oh, no! Ten minutes! I checked my leggings. Oh, no! Ten more inches! By Gate 22, I was in deep trouble. The waistband was wrapped around my knees. The fabric that used to cover my knees circled my ankles. I was reduced to walking like a geisha girl, moving forward with mincing steps. Passengers hurried past me—yes, snickering—while I tried to look nonchalant. No easy task when your face matches your bright red leggings.
Make that anklings.
"Let them hold the plane," I muttered, pressing my luggage against my knees and heading for safety. I ducked in the doorway marked Women—then stopped short when I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror by the sink. I'd been waddling through a crowded airport sporting nothing but bare legs and a t-shirt.
Leggings no more, they were now mere fetters for the fashion inept. Why not step out of them, you say? Not an option. That would leave my unshaven legs sticking out—pasty white as only spring legs can be, and flabby besides. Dropping my bags in a heap on the restroom floor, I gathered up my limp leggings and yanked them back in place. Only five gates to go. Could they stay up long enough to get me on that plane?
"Got any safety pins?"
The voice behind me belonged to a resourceful-looking woman wearing a friendly smile—and leggings. A sister! She was already digging in her purse, and soon produced a handful of silver safety pins.
"Pin the wasteband to your bra," she instructed, pointing me toward an empty stall. "Works like a charm." And so it did.
Firmly anchored and stretched to the max, my leggings and I took off at a full sprint for Gate 33 with nary a sag. Relieved to find the door still open and my seat waiting for me, I collapsed into 11-c and leaned back. And screamed.
The flight attendant was there in a heartbeat. "Ma'am, are you okay?"
"S-sure," I said, gingerly easing forward, trying to escape the sprung metal point. I never knew safety pins could be so unsafe. "I'm gonna need a Band-Aid."
"Certainly." She rummaged around her first aid kit. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." I winced when the second pin stabbed me in the front. "Duct tape. Preferably red."
She held up a ubiquitous roll. "Sorry. All I've got is this."
Dove gray. "Perfect."
Liz Curtis Higgs, a TCW columnist, is the author of 15 books and one novella, "Fine Print," featured in the anthology Three Weddings and a Giggle (Multnomah). She lives with her husband and two children in Kentucky.
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