Cotton Hell Tights

                   

                  The pain I suffered, as a child, by having to wear cotton tights was a real struggle, and trail for me during the tender years of my childhood. Thomas Paine wisely stated, “These are the times that try men’s souls.”  In my current situation I couldn’t agree more. He goes on to say, “The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.” Again, I know from experience that this is another truth!  

                    By the end of summer I would have grown a good couple inches and my winter tights would no longer fit me. The annual trip to Target with my mother and sister to get tights was one of soul-ridden anxiety. I knew what we were getting, I knew I would be in pain all winter, and I knew there was nothing I could do.  

                    I was incredibly anxious as a child. Whenever I crossed a bridge, came in contact with tweezers, thought my mother had left the house, had to talk to people, or had to choose a meal, I would be overcome with immense anxiety. The impending doom of uncomfortable tights was not easing my mind any, to say the least.

                    My mom would pick the right size, and we would leave with the goods in tow. I don’t even know why she bothered to bring us if she already knew what she was getting. I didn’t have a choice. Not that I would have known what to get if I had had a choice. The entire time we were in the store my mind would be filled with the noise of my conscience praying that my mouth would open, and I would somehow prevent the choice that could change my winter for the better.

I never did say anything.

                    The first cold Sunday of the season I would put on my stiff, white, cotton tights with apprehension. They fit pretty well the first Sunday. But the next Sunday? No. I struggled for what seemed like hours to get my tights to obey my tugging fingers. I must have grown. My tights were too small. With these tights it only took half an inch for the beasts to fit incorrectly. This was the impending doom I knew had been coming. Before pulling my flocked, green dress over my head I looked down at the uncomfortably low crotch on my tights. Embarrassing. I tried several yoga poses trying to stretch the resistant cotton. Nothing seemed capable of fixing the crisis I was struggling with, and that’s when I knew: these tights must have come from the pit of hell itself. The true conflict was that I thought there was nothing I could do to fix the status quo.

                    I was in pain every Sunday because of the ridiculously low crotch, and incredibly embarrassed because I didn’t want to appear as that awkward primary kid who couldn’t quite get it together during the spiritual thought. I can remember sitting in primary trying to get past the horrible layers of skirt to pull up the cotton horrors. I soon forewent trying to be inconspicuous about hiking up my crotch in the middle of primary. This was a serious battle for me as a young girl who already struggled with the droll and mommy-less Primary. As a solution, every Saturday night I would tie my cotton-hell-tights to the ends of each bed-post so they would be stretched out by the time morning came. But the fight was real, and the struggle was long, so respite from the pain did not come easily. Physically or emotionally. To this day I do believe I am scarred for life.

                    I only had one brother growing up. I never understood why he didn’t have to wear these tights from Hell. And not just that, he got to wear pants to church. The injustice was hurtful. Every time we jumped up while singing “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” I would tug up through my static-charged skirts to my tights hoping no one would notice. Especially not my brother. If he noticed it would show that I was struggling with my lot in life, or perhaps that I was weak.

                    This deep conflict wasn’t resolved until I grew out of the teeny girl sizes and was tall enough that I could wear real hard-core nylons. When I have a daughter of my own I will not make her wear the stretch-less monstrosities I have been referring to as tights. I am a defender of the common man, or woman as it were. I believe in advocating against these abominable cotton tights from hell. Petitioning and actively seeking change in society’s expectations for young girls to wear such restrictive and embarrassing garments is a role I accept with pride.

                    This past summer I taught a primary class and I could tell which children were struggling with the same dilemma that I suffered from. The awkward lifting up of the legs while walking to try and casually get the tights to fit properly. And I pitied them because I suffered the same indignity.
                    I am therefore resolved to pursue change, and find order in this world of chaos. So many little girls are in need of a rescuer. Many would look at it as an inferior duty, but no task is small if the goal is worthy and appreciated. It will be an eternal conflict in the lives of many adolescents, I do not deny it. Most of the time it cannot be helped. All societies have their martyrs. (I was almost one of them), but through them we have, as Mr. Paine stated: “triumph”! I triumph in that I have surpassed that intense stage in life!

                    Oprah Winfrey said, “I am a woman in process. I’m just trying like everybody else. I try to take every conflict, every experience, and learn from it. Life is never dull.”
She speaks of being “a woman in process,” and that’s what I battled with: a process. One of pain, and very little emotional recovery. But she is also right in saying “life is never dull”.

P.S. This was originally written for my english class at BYU-Idaho. We were asked to write about a conflict in our personal lives. 

LOST: Parents

Being uprooted from your family tree is an unsettling as it sounds. It looks something like this:

Last Sunday it was brought to my attention that part of my family tree wasn’t accurately documented in Family Search. Something to do with codes and numbers and proper familial things mumbo jumbo – I couldn't actually say. The point is, in the process of trying to get my right family back my mother and I ended up deleting both of my parents from my family tree, in turn leaving me with no one in my lineage but… me. It has been a real struggle, but I think I might be able to make it. It’s a lonely road fraught with criticism that I am not doing enough to seek my ancestors. At the moment I am more concerned about being connected to ancestors that are a little closer than a few great-greats. Much, much closer. Finding that long lost grandfather has even become somewhat (dare I say it?) trivial since I started tearing the Family Search search-engine to pieces looking for my parents. I have been orphaned.

If you actually want to know what happened, here’s the scoop: If you have ever been on Family Search you know that each person has a code. While trying to figure out a couple issues, my mother and I were comparing family trees when we realized that the only codes that were the same on our family names was her mother’s (my grandmother). Same names, same people, same, same, same. And yet different. So we deleted the seemingly less accurate names attached to my name. Makes sense? The most disturbing thing about the ordeal is the fact that even my code-number-thing is different from the one my mother has on her family tree. I AM NOT MY MOTHER’S CHILD. A lost soul to be specific.

I plan on fixing this as soon as I can. “Can” being a flexible term that probably refers to talking to a Family History buff and having them fix it. As much as I want to fix this myself I know my unpracticed fingers would do more harm than good. I would probably put the wrong person as my mother for all I know. Speaking of which, if I ever did want a different family this would be the time to take matters into my own hands! I could add pretty much add anyone into the slot that says, “Mother” or “Father”.

Even better, f anyone has an opening in their Family Tree let me know! Female, 5'8'', blonde, feeling lost. If I'm a fit send me an e-mail. I'm also accepting applications for new families daily. If you fit my criteria we might be able to talk details.

However, when I look at the options, I do not want to replace my Mather and Father. Indeed, the people I want as my parents the most are the ones I have…. Or rather the ones I think I have. 

To all families: Please apply no later than January 1st of the new year. Please note: Preference will be given to families that test positive as a blood relatives. 

I am not a "Blogger"

As one who has never had any consistent hobbies I do not expect blogging to become one of them, and yet it seems like something that, even if I do not excel at, it I can do in my spare time. Since getting home from college and starting a new full-time job I have had very little time to spend on extraneous things that seem frivolous… like blogging. But to say I am bored wouldn't be far-fetched either.

I have three rules for myself with this blog:

1. Punctuation shmunctuation. When writing I tend to be over critical about whether or not it is accurate, thus refusing to show it to anyone else. This cannot matter anymore.

2. Consistency shall be mine! I will try hard to post once a week! There’s no use starting a blog if I don’t have an expectation for myself. A schedule of sorts.

3. I don’t have a third rule.

And there you have it! I’ll be writing about whatever tickles my fancy that week. It might be horrible. It might be really horrible. But if you find joy or even simply mild pleasure from something I have written then I have done my job as a “blogger”.

Best Regards, HH

P.S. You may have noticed that this blog isn’t new. There is, in fact, a post from about two years ago from a previous attempt to blog! Read it and you will know what the content of this blog will probably look like. 

P.P.S. Why the cat? The real question is, "why not the cat?".