Here is a scene I’ve reenacted maybe 7,000 times so far in my life: I will notice a little run in my tights, feel annoyed, get home … and then put the tights in the laundry. Like somehow the laundry basket’s magical darning elves will appear and these tights will become as new. And then the next time I’m rooting around in the tights drawer, I don’t see the run and put on the tights, get annoyed, take them off, put them back in the drawer and resume rooting.
The flaw in this plan is so obvious, and yet I do it again and again, even though there is not a single thing in the world that can make those tights whole.
So new rule: if my tights have a run, they get taken off at the first available opportunity and thrown away. We are DONE, tights. A run is a dealbreaker for you and I. Your next home is the garbage can … or perhaps a supporting role in some sort of Amy Sedaris-style craft. But that’s it!
(image specifically chosen in the hopes that my beloved Meredith will provide a caption, as those are her very favorite colors)