Notes for my Children's Therapist: The Nylons Incident (and why I will never be a girly girl. Or socially competent)

Alright. So we had a work-do last night, and the requirements were to 'dress to impress'. Obviously my usual clothing style of 'homeless person at a funeral with sneakers' did not fit this criteria, so I dug deep within our already packed closets (read: Paul dug deep within his carefully packed closets and suitcases) and pulled out my one, my only, my favourite... my little black dress.

This dress has served me well over the last 5 years.

It was my brother in law's graduation little black dress:

It was one of my best friend's wedding little black dress:

This little black dress saw me through parties and Cambridge dinners and just about every other lovely London event since having the kids. The dress hasn't changed and remains wonderful.

The body not so much.

Honestly, the dress is okay. The dress still fits, though it a little bit tight. Not too bad. My issue yesterday wasn't the dress. It was the nylons.

See, you have to understand that this isn't really my fault. The steroid medication I'm on causes Cushings Syndrome, which creates benign tumors and bloats around your face, back of your shoulders and your middle - giving you the body shape of... say... an egg on sticks.

So if you think about it, there's nothing for the nylon waist to hang on to. I have no waist. None. I have hips, but they're buried somewhere (I know I have them, I've seen them on x-rays).

This is fine though, I have extra large nylons, shimmied into them at home, pulled them up somewhere near my chest and completed the outfit with my little black dress, a pair of great knee-high boots and pearls.

Good to go.

The work-do wasn't until the evening, so I went downtown with Paul to an appointment before heading to work in the afternoon. Everything was fine and I looked fantastic.

After his appointment we walked about 10 minutes back to Victoria Station to each catch our respective tubes. Now, Victoria is a HUGE station in London. I could feel the nylons start to kind of pull down around my boots and bunch around the waist, but no matter. I could fix them when I got to work later.

Hungry yet rushed we stopped at a burrito place within the station, each getting a half-wrapped burrito to go full of authentic Mexican goodness - and we were on our way, beginning the slow walk through the station to the underground entrance.

I'd taken only a few bites of my burrito when I stopped, frozen in my tracks. I looked at Paul with horror on my face and told him I needed to find a bathroom, stat.

"What?!" he choked out having thrown his head back in laughter "you just took a bite. It can't be affected that fast!"

No Paul, no. I explained to him that it wasn't the burrito. It was the nylons.

They had started... the death roll.

The waistband of the nylons had somehow bunched just enough to form a perfect cord-like cylinder around my middle, rolling down in sharp, sudden 1/2 inch waves of suspense, stalking down my torso in a slow but inevitable escape. It was like being cornered down a long dark alleyway in a horror movie, the killer scraping his meat cleaver along the brick walls as he slowly ambles along toward you with the knowledge that there will be no escape.

Holding my half-eaten burrito in one hand and using my other to inconspicuously (so consipcuously) hold up my nylons at the point of my hip under my coat I pleadingly looked around for a washroom sign - though none was to be found. Paul saw that my anxiety and panic had reached the point of a hyped up gazelle and led the way through the station as I hurried along keeping my legs as straight as possible so as not to encourage further death-rolling behind him, in desperate search of the station washroom.

He found it - pointing a short way away. It was a pay-to-use public toilet (augh!) and I had nothing. Paul came up with a 50 pence coin and I bolted, trying to hold up the nylons by clenching my thighs together and walking with my knees touching, feet apart as fast as I could.

So there I was, desperately lurching toward the loos with my knees pressed together, apparently hiking up my dress with one hand and holding a half eaten burrito in the other. The nylons had reached crisis point and with a violent, shuddering effort of a roll had overcome the peak of my mid-section and were now free-rolling down my hips and toward the top of my thighs. Another minute and they would be below coat line, and wait, what was that? Oh God, no. They had gotten hold of my underwear and were pulling those down too. Oh no.

No no no no no.

I imagined the nylons building up enough rolling pressure to suddenly sling-shot themselves and my comfy (ahem. Granny) underwear right down over my boots, and if that happened publicly there would be no recovering. I would just have to light myself on fire.

I scrambled toward the turnstiles, already drawing attention from the crowd. The first machine spit my 50 pence coin straight back at me.

Huh?! I lurched over to the next turnstile, clutching my nylons and pressing my thighs together hard enough to make a diamond. The next one wouldn't take my coin either. What the hell was going on? I looked up at the sign again - the stupid things only took 10 and 20 p coins, and needed a total of 30p! WHO KEEPS CHANGE LIKE THAT IN THEIR BAG ANYMORE?!?!?

So there I was, thighs pressed together and feet wide, hunched down to hide the nylons of death that were trolling down my legs, my eyes wet with tears of desperation and a half-eaten Mexican burrito in my hand (I'll be shocked if the CCTV doesn't end up on youtube at some point) and audibly pleading with the turnstile to take my coin while I debated just trying to jump over the damn thing - when a woman popped some coins into the turnstile and told me to run for it.

And I did! I burst through the turnstile like a champ