When I was eleven, I had a pair of soft, red cable-knit tights.  I had begged, plead and wept copious tears in order to get this fashion item.  My mother ran to the navy blue, black, ivory combo that was always sold in an economical package in JcPenney’s little miss section, or whatever they called it.  She was a Penney’s mom all the way – do it once, do it right. None of that discount store stuff for her, thank you.  She also bought me three cardigan sweaters per year from the same department, also red, navy and white. 
    The trouble was, I was not, apparently, wired to be my mother’s kid.  Something in my brain alerted the body the moment I put on a new pair of tights, and eventually the message made its way to the knees which gave out at a critical moment, during a game of tag or just playing around on the stretch of rocky asphalt that passed as a playground at our public elementary school. 

    So.  The red tights were a huge splurge for my mother, and not just in the financial sense.  Something about their fire-engine quality must have offended her Yankee sensibilities, but every now and then she would do something unexpected like this. I had come home one winter afternoon to find the tights on my bed, and had run to throw my arms around her.  She squeezed me briskly back, not for too long, and went back to the kitchen where she was putting together dinner.  Something casserole-ish.  On her way out of my room she turned and fixed me with her best look, and said “Be careful with them.”
I assured her on my honor, come what may, I would remain on my feet and the tights would stay unblemished for the rest of my life, cross my heart and hope to die. 
    I wore my tights to school the very next day, underneath a black corduroy jumper that my mother had sewn for me, and one of those strawberry-printed turtlenecks that the 70’s are famous for.  I thought I was something spectacular to see.  I had recently learned that if I swung my head from side to side, I could get my long sheaf of blonde hair to sail back and forth behind me.  Why I would want to do this is beyond me now, but I thought I was pret-ty hot stuff as I strolled the corridors of the school.  The strange glances I received from adults, I merely took for glossy admiration.  I was in the sixth grade, at the pinnacle of my elementary school career, and in the spotlight thanks to my ensemble.  I soared through class for the entire morning, until my best friend hissed across the table to me, “It’s Gym day! Did you bring your sneakers?”  I believe I almost passed out.
    Gym day.  Speak to any one of thousands of people, and they will share with you that the worst memories of their lives have to do with Gym, or Phys Ed as we are now supposed to call it. One big sweaty room, hot in any season, walls lined with mats so filthy that you might vomit if ever pressed against one, which you were frequently during the “games” we played.  All the rather androgynous instructor did was to pass out heavy leather balls to the biggest kids in the class, then disappear into her office where she could watch us from a large window and drink coffee (well, probably not coffee, but it was in a mug), occasionally shouting things at us that may have been supportive, but which always sounded like threats. 

    Most of us who were smaller, weaker, and with not even a drop of testosterone anywhere in our bodies were resigned to run, and run we did – from one end of the sweat palace to the other, until a bell signaled that the forty-five minute period was blessedly over.  There were no showers for elementary students at our school, but we did have to change into shorts and a t-shirt each week. The school kept these mistrustfully locked up in the gym office, all mixed together in an aromatic ball, and washed them perhaps once a year, or maybe I’m being optimistic. We changed into these in the big equipment room, first girls and then boys, and returned to the gym as a saggy blue mass.
    On the day of the tights, I was in the middle of changing along with my female compatriots, when I noticed that I had no socks.  Of course I didn’t – my tights were my socks, and not only that, but the cute black Mary Janes I was wearing would not pass even slightly for sneakers.  The gym teacher was rabidly protective of her floor, at least where footwear was concerned.  I thought it possible that she might shoot me on sight.
    As I stood there frozen, holding my tights in one hand, one of my friends risked life and limb by venturing to the inner sanctum to fetch the teacher.  She quickly returned with the lumbering lady right behind her, still gripping her mug. A few girls nearest to her sucked in its fumes and swooned on the spot.
    “What’s the problem?” she growled, possibly in English.  I haltingly explained my situation.  Wordlessly she reached into a dank bin, and brought out a pair of sneakers that might have been white at some point, but which were now so dirty that they defied color. The laces were black, and about ten feet long.  She tossed them at my feet.

    “But … I don’t have any socks,” I explained, then a glimmer of hope appeared in my mind. “I could just sit out this time!”  My friends all looked expectantly at the teacher, and I could already see their collective tights-wearing plot forming in their minds.
    “Nobody sits out!” she grunted.  “Put your … what are those things?”
    “They’re tights,” I said.  “But I’m not supposed to get holes in them. My mother said!”  Touché. Another expectant group glance upward.  Invoking the parent’s wishes sometimes bought us a reprieve with the teachers.  Not this one, it would seem.
    “Then don’t fall down,” she sneered, and returned to her office.  
    My spirits sank as I removed the blue shorts, put on my flame-red tights, and replaced the shorts once again.  Then I reluctantly put on the sneakers, which squelched in a disgusting way and wafted up a yellow scent that I could actually see in the air, and stood up for inspection. The combined effect of the shorts against the tights actually made my legs seem to waver in the fluorescent lighting.  
    “It’s not that bad,” my best friend said loyally.  She was the nicest person I have ever known.  Still is, for that matter.  She led me bravely out into the gym to peals of laughter from the boys, who were waiting anxiously for their turn at the room.  I’m pretty sure I turned the same shade as my tights, and stayed that way for the entire period.

    When the boys came out, the instructor returned and handed out small squares of plywood, each with three wheels nailed to the bottom.  She divided us fairly into two teams, which is to say she put the largest and meanest into one group, and the rest of us into the other. She then went back to the office and came back with an enormous sphere of dirty canvas, tossed it into the middle of our group, announced “It’s crab soccer.  No hands!“ in a surly tone, and retreated to the safety of her window.  From there she made us understand, through hand gestures, that we should each sit on our wheeled square and crab-walk our way around the gym, kicking at the ball to get it to our team’s goal. Simple.
    We began as one mass in the center of the room, kicking furiously in each other’s faces to get the ball started.  When we managed to loft it into the air, it began to roll and bounce off our heads and faces in the general direction of the kicks.  Legs flailed, mine most noticeable of all.  One of my classmates who was prone to seizures had to be removed from the game when he couldn‘t tear his eyes away from my limbs, and began wheeling madly in circles.  He was seated against the mats in disgrace, to my extreme envy.
       I was miserable beyond all reason, making it worse by reddening my eyes with the tears that kept trying to fall.  Big mean laughter swirled around my ears.  Canvas thudded threateningly, like the sound of an approaching giant. As per my luck,  I ended up underneath the ball.
    “Hey!” called a voice.  The voice, that of the boy I had been struck dumb in love with since Kindergarten.  Alex Janowitz, the cutest and most sophisticated human being on earth.  He wore Izod shirts with the collar up, perfectly faded blue jeans, and a beautiful smile.  Every year he went to the islands with his divorcee father – I remember he brought a map to school for show and tell one year, and we all pronounced his destination “Saint Crotch” until the teacher hastily corrected us – and he was unbearably cool.  He was one of those incredibly rare human beings who are popular but not mean, and in my imagination he featured right up there with Shaun Cassidy and Jon from CHiPs.  I froze up at the sight of him.

    “Hey, lady red legs!” he called out in my direction. “Pass it here!”  As I recall, the sun blasted a hole right through the roof of the gymnasium and directed a beam onto me, me and my flaming legs.  In a dream, I reached out one long fire pole and miracle of miracles, actually connected.  The canvas ball soared up and onto his waiting foot like a gift from heaven, which it probably was.  Alex kicked it once again and it flew into the goal, sending up a cheer and even raising a grunt from the lump behind the window.  Alex grinned at me, stopping time.  Around us the game went on, and he joined in.  I did too, as soon as I was able to retake oxygen.  
    The rest of the period passed in a few seconds, during which I was lauded with praise and good-natured calls of “Lady red legs!”, and it was the first time in history that I was sorry to hear the bell ring.  I dressed as fast as humanly possible back in my outfit and flew back out to line up.  I was sure that Alex would try to line up next to me – after all, we had shared quite a moment.  Kings and Queens had been drawn together by less.
    But when the rest of the class lined up, Alex was several positions further down, bracketed snugly by the most popular girl and the second-most popular boy, as was their right.  The laws of elementary school popularity are after all immutable, and as unlikely to change as fruited Jell-o and stone cold cafeteria pizza on Fridays.  I had broken in for a rare second, and it was a moment never to be repeated, except in my happy pre-sleep imagination every night for years to come.  And those remain the only pair of tights  that I never, ever put a single hole in.