One fateful night each year, while the women of the Northeastern United States slumber peacefully -- dreaming, not of sugar plums, but of well-written text messages and fat-free bacon -- a formidable chill creeps into the air. No one knows from whence this chill comes. It could be from the North Pole, or perhaps it is an unintended consequence of reduced fossil fuel use. The women daren't ask.
And the arrival of this bite in the air is as mysterious as its source. Some years it descends in mid-September, with Labor Day barbecues and beach-time merriment barely in the rearview. Other years it takes the women by surprise in November -- if the chill were to come that late, they convinced themselves that it surely would not come at all.
But arrive it does, as certainly as each April brings Tax Day. When they arise the next morning, the women arise greet this dreaded blast of cold with a bleak shiver. For they know, as they hang their heads with regret, that it is tights season.
No longer can the women bear the skin of their calves and upper thighs to the elements. No longer will they feel the gentle kiss of the sun on their ankles as they cross their legs in shorts. No longer will potential paramours remark on the delicacy of their knees. Nair commercials will cease to air on television. Sundresses will be relegated to the back of closets. Skin will begin to flake and chafe against the repeated assault of a denim fortress.
But the chill comes at its own hour. It cannot be fought, and it cannot be delayed. The elder women know this from years of experience. When the younger and flightier of the species continue to expose their legs despite the cold, their ancestors merely chuckle and put on an extra pair of woolen stockings. Their wisdom is unparalleled -- eventually even the youngest women must relent to the chill's demand, though their legs may become frostbitten during their stubborn delay.
The women mourn tights season each year, for they know it will be May or perhaps even June before they can shed their legs' synthetic exoskeleton and expose their skin to the world once more.
But oh, how the leg hair did rejoice! For now was the growing season -- and they knew that they would not be harvested by Venus, nor Schick, nor Intuition for months to come.
The End