I owe full credit/blame to Blair Waldorf and her Met Museum minions for kicking off my tights addiction. Tights were something I barely considered before Gossip Girl. Sometimes on a particularly chilly day (B.G.G.), I’d stop into CVS to pick up some L’eggs Sheer Energy in Nude–Suntan if I was feeling really crazy. I shudder just thinking about it.

Without elaborating on each carefully plotted purchase, I’ll simply say that my current collection of tights (which, mind you, does not include a single set of sheer hose) has now grown to occupy an entire drawer of my bureau. Fed up from wasting too much time every morning searching for the perfect outfit-makers (the decision of hearts vs. stripes or maroon vs. red is more vital than you know), I spent an afternoon separating my tangled tights into sandwich bags labeled with Post-it notes–ie the best fashion-related decision I’ve maybe ever made in my young life.

Secret shame: My tights drawer