Image courtesy of American Apparel.

There’s a hole in my stocking, dear Liza, dear Liza, there’s a hole in my stocking…

My brand-new, happily-purchased, black, American Apparel opaque pantyhose, that is. Purchased with good faith in American Apparel and its vertically integrated manufacturing. Its sweatshop-free work environments and advocation on behalf of the immigrant workforce. In willful ignorance of its pubescent models with their purposely-visible nipples, and the scandals surrounding its (Canadian) CEO.

Oh but you lied to me American Apparel, you lied. With your independent journalism verifying the awesome of your tights. FALSE.

Killer dress, new tights, ready for a night out… And there’s a run. All the way down the inside of my left thigh, to my knee. Brilliant. I have no chance to get home in between classes and meetings and the events of the evening. What to do.

I tear a symmetrical run into them on the opposite leg. Only, my manufactured run goes all the way down to the foot. So, I attempt to extend the other one. ONLY, WHEN I WANT THEM TO RUN, THEY WON’T! Good for nothing — why I oughta! I do the best I can, and carry on. Keep calm and carry on.

I go to the bathroom. There’s another run. Genius. It’s above the hemline of my dress so far, but this dress is not of regulation length and the run is closely approaching… Next I look, it has conquered. F. Time to create another matching run on the opposite leg. Joy.

And so it goes. Me and my laddered stockings. Day one and I already belong on the corner.

Next time, I’m heading straight to Winners and just buying Hue. That’ll teach me to branch out.