So I believe there are certain articles of clothing that women should ban together and refuse to wear anymore; the first of these articles being nylons.
I will admit, nylons do serve a few beneficial purposes; they keep you warm in cold weather, they keep your thighs from sticking together when wearing a skirt on hot days, and they can hide scars or the fact you haven't shaved your legs in a few days. However, they are the most cumbersome, constricting pieces of clothing ever designed. How is it we can log onto the internet with our cell phones and upload videos directly to our Facebook accounts, but we still have to look like there are serious ants in our pants when we struggle to don a pair of nylons. Not once have I ever gracefully pulled on a pair of nylons. First there is the confusion of finding the front and the back. I am not sure, even after 24 years, if there is a front or back. Then, oh so cautiously, one must gather up the delicate nylons and begin the dance of first inserting toes, then pulling the nylons up our thighs. This is where things can get tricky. If in a rush, it is guaranteed the nylons will become twisted. This leads to the art of pulling to the left and twisting to the right. After many unsuccessful attempts, the nylons may now be somewhat straight and at this time we can begin the task of deciding where we want to place the top of the nylons. Being as nylons are made of an extremely stretchy material, they will cause a muffin-topping of your hips, regardless of current weight or body shape. So the decision is where you would like your muffin-top to appear. After careful consideration and a number of trial and errors, we finally settle on the least obvious muffin location. Now as we turn to put on our skirt, we notice in the mirror the dreaded tear near our heels in the nylons. Our efforts have been thwarted. The nylons have mutinied. In a panic, we examine the damage, praying clear nail polish will stop the uprising. It is too late, the tear is spreading to our calves and clear nail polish may stop the tear, but the harm is done. In a fit of rage, we rip the nylons from our legs, only to find once again we are made a mockery of by our clothing. The nylons refuse to eradicate themselves from our lower extremities, stretching to new limits, but never seeming to separate from our skin. After stomping, pulling, kicking, and several naughty words, we are free from our captors and left to dig through our drawers in search of another pair.
Nylons, you are the ban of my existence.