“What on earth are you doing, dear?” asked the Muse. I was caught doing a jiggly one-footed dance while at the same time trying to get the darn pantyhose to fit over my bootyliscious butt.
“Putting on pantyhose should be an Olympic sport,” I groaned.
“One size fits all, my arse,” I said as I groped for the waistband and tried to hop into them.
“Since you brought it up, your derriere is on the large side, dear.”
“Thank you, Captain bloody Obvious,” I said, remembering to breathe in between spurts of frantic action. I looked insane; like a stalker without a purpose, a fly without a sticky mess. I bent my knees and hauled the hose up. No one wanted wrinkly knees!
No matter how hard one tried, at the end of a two hour lapse, the pantyhose would start sagging and pooling around your ankles like an attentive cat. Moreover the crutch would sink innocently to your thighs, looking up at you like an underfed orphan. There is never a middle ground for these things as they sag, twist or are so tight around your crutch area that you feel like an overstuffed sofa or a volcano ready to blow. Who invented these torture devices and who says we have to wear them? Oh, the vanity of the female race- we need bronzed, silky legs sticking out under our skirts. Pantyhose were my go to item when it’s chilly, I have forgotten to shave (read lazy as all heck) or I need to look grand.
I turned 40 and the first thing out the door was; you guessed it, my pantyhose! Bring on the knee highs, ankle socks or knee socks and I couldn’t care less about my super white, veiny calves- wear your sunglasses if the glare offends you. And if I haven’t shaved, avert your eyes; there is nothing to see here! Besides which I am waiting for the wool price to rise by which time I am sure I could get a few coins for my unwanted hair, failing that I could always knit a scarf out of them!