I just got back from a book tour, and I had a great time except for one thing.
You probably don’t know what that is, and I didn’t either, until my horse vet told me I needed them.
Yes, I’m taking medical advice from a horse vet.
And I have no problem with that.
He’s a genius, plus he’s managed to keep my geriatric pony Buddy alive, and I’m even more geriatric than Buddy.
We’re both old nags.
To explain, we got to talking before my book tour, and I told him I was nervous about sitting on planes for six hours at a stretch, because I’m newly paranoid about blood clots forming in my legs and killing me.
That’s the deal when you hit my age, in terms of health. Everything you do is aimed toward trying not to die.
I’m thinking all the time, what is it that will kill me?
Will it be a blood clot? Or unrequited love for Bradley Cooper?
Anyway, my vet told me I should get something called compression tights, which would help prevent blood clots from forming. So right away I looked online under compression tights and read about the magical properties thereof.
According to the website, they also promise to Improve Your Performance.
(Even if your performance is Sitting On My Ass.)
They actually have “Power,” which is measured in “Newtons.”
(I measure my “Power” in “Fig Newtons.”)
They even Reduce The Risk Of Injury.
Which is a definite plus, in case I trip on the way to the airplane bathroom.
So I ordered myself a pair in medium, which is usually my size, but when they arrived and I got them out of the pack, they looked like Barbie’s black capris.
Please tell me you know what I’m talking about. Or humor me; either is fine.
Anyway, I was Compression Barbie.
And I couldn’t get the tights over my thighs.
In fact, I could barely get them over my ankles.
They were like Spanx for hags.
Taking the compression part way too seriously.
So I sent the medium tights back and exchanged them for large, which I actually squeezed into, for the weirdest feeling ever.
They were like yoga tights without the namaste.
The package said they would feel like a hug, but they felt like a mugging.
Still, I made myself wear them because the first part of the tour was a flight from Philadelphia to Los Angeles, and somewhere over Ohio, I realized this could’ve been one of my worst ideas ever.
Worse even than my second marriage.
And so far, that had been my personal best.
Or personal worst.
The compression tights were compressing my legs like shrink-wrapping, and the waistband was so tight I was giving myself a do-it-yourself hysterectomy.
Plus I not only had muffin top, I had soufflé top.
I didn’t know what to do.
I tried to put my hand in my tights while I was sitting there, to keep the waistband from cutting off blood flow to my kidneys, but I lost circulation in my fingers.
Then I went to the bathroom to try to roll down the waistband so would fit around my hips, but it rolled back up like a window shade.
You know what I’m talking about if you rolled your skirt in school.
We did that in sixth grade to make our skirts look shorter, but all it did was make them look bunchy.
Anyway, somewhere over Colorado, I tried to sleep to forget about the pain, which I actually managed to do. Because so little oxygen was getting to my brain I basically passed out.
I considered having a drink, but rejected that idea. I had to speak to 200 people after I landed, and I don’t think they were going to excuse gin breath for medicinal purposes.
It was a wardrobe nightmare.
They weren’t compression tights, they were depression tights.
Or oppression tights.
No matter, I wasn’t impressed.
The only upside was that we encountered some turbulence on the flight, which usually terrifies me, but I was in no danger of peeing myself because the compression tights sealed my urethra.
Hell, I might even have my hymen back.
But I’ll never know.
Look for Lisa and Francesca’s new humor collection, “I Need a Lifeguard Everywhere But the Pool,” and Lisa’s new best-selling domestic thriller, “After Anna,” in stores now. firstname.lastname@example.org.