I hate pantyhose. I went to my High School reunion last weekend so I had to buy a pair of hose for the first time in years (my kids have never seen me in a dress). I did a little research and apparently pantyhose are the invention of a butcher in England some 150 years ago. He was filling sausage casings when he had a flash of male inspiration:
“By George,” he thought, “I’ll bet my wife’s legs would look positively smashing in this stuff.”
The whole pantyhose process disturbs me. To begin with the little stair-step, sizing chart on the back of the package is confusing. I compared my height and weight to my age, hair color, and zodiac sign and I realized I no longer fit into “Queen” size hose. Some four babies later I had morphed into a size best described as “Queen Mother”. After the shock of that revelation settled in, I headed home with my egg shaped container only to pull out a pair of hose that looked more like leggings for the new “Trophy Wife Barbie”.
After a glass of wine I’d built up all my feminine courage and started the slow process of massaging and stretching the see-through mesh and then used my thumbs to expand and coax the material up my legs.
“Please don’t let them twist” I prayed as I worked through the process.
*Note to whatever male readers I have left: Twisted hose are somewhat akin to having God put your skin on wrong. You stand there, you know something doesn’t feel or look right but the idea of starting over is simply mind blowing. So you pinch at the material that is now one with your skin, rotating it as best you can and acting like you’ve fixed it: even though you can clearly see the pantyhose tag aligned with your belly button.
Despite a lifetime doing this; I believed I could complete the process in my bedroom like some Victoria’s Secret model. As usual I ended up bent over and hobbling into the bathroom with one leg in the hose and one leg out; searching for the ten year old bottle of clear nail polish I bought the last time I wore pantyhose.
Having found only the bright purple, glimmer stuff I used last Halloween when I dressed up as Ursula from “The Little Mermaid”, I painted some on my leg where my first “runner” had begun. After I hopped around on one foot for three minutes blowing on the polish, I finished pulling up the hose and began the deep knee bends required to expand the length of the legs, and with the cry of a Samurai, pulled the crotch up the last six inches.
Eventually, and I’ll admit it, I opted to wear pants and Spanx. I could have worn the hose, but the idea of repeating this ritual every time I went to the bathroom was just too much. Besides, I wouldn’t see these guys for another ten years and my push up bra was enough drama for the evening.
You’ve got to love hearing people say “You haven’t changed a bit”.
Parenting Tip of the Day: As soon as they voice the desire to do so, let your children pick out their clothes. They won’t match, they’ll be too hot, but they’ll learn that they have a voice. Picking out clothes is the first way children learn to express themselves. Every teacher and every mom understands and will forgive the blues matched with the oranges. Of course never let them suffer, but a child that refuses to wear a warm coat and who shivers at the bus stop, sure does appreciate mom pulling a warm jacket out of nowhere.