On the day of my father’s second wedding, I lost my tights.

My father’s bride-to-be had bought my younger sister, Lindsey and I similar dresses and matching tights.

Lindsey was born with a love of order, and I came into this place way more messy.  So, at 14  and 12 it was really no surprise that Lindsey had her dress, tights, shoes and hair accessories all neatly laid out, and my ensemble was strewn between three different rooms.

And when it came time to get ready – while Lindsey was still in the shower – I stole her tights.

I made up some story about how she must’ve put her tights somewhere else during the planning process, because these tights – my tights – I found these under the bed. And hers would never end up under the bed.

A fight ensued, my grandmother ended up going to the store to purchase another pair, and everyone knew that I lied.  Including me.  But I never admitted it, in fact, I actually became so enraged that I threaten to punch Lindsey if she brought up MY tights one more friggin’ time.

21 years later, I know that both Lindsey and I have forgiven me – but I know that I at least haven’t forgotten.

Even now it brings up some stomach churning shame – less because of what I did, and more because of how hard I held on to it.

And for what?  A pair of tights?  Looking together?

As I’ve grown, I’ve gotten better at admitting and accepting my mess – at not pulling others so far down into with me – but it’s a practice – and perfection doesn’t exist.  So,  thankfully, I can still get better.

And for the most part, I’ve given up on tights.