I love layering. I do. I love the layered look. I love being able to pack four colors into a single outfit. And – as someone who is still a mite shy of showing tons of skin – I LOVE being COVERED UP! So I’m happy as a sweater-wearing clam right now, during tights-and-scarves-and-cardis season.
Except for one thing: Constant layer migration.
I have to yank my tights up as high as possible so the waistband doesn’t fall directly into my tum-divet, causing unsightly tum-protuberance. And that means yanking them almost up to my bra line.
I have to situate my slip – which is a black, supershort, elastic-waistband half-slip – so that it, too, falls as far from the tum-divet as possible. But my slip must also keep my skirt from doing its crumpled-paper-bag imitation right in front of my thighs when I walk. So it’s typically hiked waaaaaay down. Like, just above my ladyparts.
THEN I have to deal with my skirt. And because of all that slippery stuff underneath – smooth tights and slick slip – it wants to perch up near my armpits. I try to convince it to stay put, but it roams.
And sometimes there’s even a cami involved.
So, all day long, I do The Dance. Yanking the tights skyward, easing the slip downward, tucking the cami back in, forcing the skirt into place by pushing on it from inside the pockets. Every trip to the restroom affords me the opportunity to properly rearrange and realign. And as I leave the restroom, I always think, “Maybe THIS time, it’ll all stay put.” But, friends, it never does. And even when I’m not actually doing The Dance, I still move a little differently because of how everything on my bod is busily sliding around. I must look like I have an itchy rash.
I realize that larger tights might not migrate down, and a full slip wouldn’t subdivide my flab. But I’ve gotta make do with these tools for now, and that’s completely fine. But perhaps I should try clipping my tights to my bra? Pinning my slip to my skirt hem?
Or perhaps I should simply make sure that I only do The Dance in the bathroom. OK, and the stairwell. And maybe my cube when I’m sure no one’s looking …