Don’t get me wrong, I can appreciate the role that pantyhose play.  There are definitely days that I am a fan of the “control top.”  And who hasn’t put on their last pair of clean dress pants only to immediately spill coffee all over them and thank the stars for a pair of dark colored nylons to cover up the fact that you decided to sleep in an extra fifteen minutes instead of shaving your legs?  These are all good things, and for people as lily white as me, a good pair of pantyhose is the only way you will ever see my legs with that oh so attractive tanned hue.  But unless you happen to be the exact size of the pantyhose model, they don’t fit right.  If you’re short you get build up at the ankle.  If you’re tall the crotch lands just above the knee.  I don’t even think they fit right on averaged sized people and don’t get me started on knee highs!  There has got to be some sort of pantyhose fairy that goes around to make sure that whatever size you buy, no matter how long you study that little chart on the back, something about them won’t quite fit right.

I am well aware of this. Yet somehow I always forget while getting dressed in that rosy-hued, half-asleep oblivion of the morning where I believe that I will actually be comfortable wearing women’s clothing all day, that at some point during the day there will be a pantyhose meltdown.  A point at which the pantyhose revolt, and refuse to play nicely anymore.  They stage a coup on your comfort and sanity and you wind up with the crotch twisted up against your inner thigh which cuts off circulation to your other leg a little bit and no matter how much you tug, shimmy and cajole they won’t budge!  So you fight and struggle with them until finally in your frustration you pull just a little too hard, or your nail catches just so and a huge run screams down the length of your leg faster than you can exclaim, “WHAT NEW SWEET HELL IS THIS?”

Sometimes this melt down happens at the end of the day.  But on some glorious, I love being a woman days it happens the second you are far enough away from the house that it is no longer practical to go back and remedy the situation.  Forget a horse, my kingdom for a razor and some shaving cream so that I can rip these suckers off once and for all and go about my day like the somewhat sane person that I usually am.  Although that’s not really an option either, because you just know that the second you start, that woman from the office down the hall with the styled hair, perfect make-up and never a seam out of place on her matchy-matchy outfits will walk in and give you that look.  You know the look that I’m talking about.  That haughty, “You call yourself a woman, get your act together!” look.

So you suffer in silence, escaping to the bathroom on regular intervals to tug and cajole but usually only succeed in making the situation worse.  Until one time you’re in there losing the battle and she walks in.  You brace yourself for the look, but it never comes.  Instead she gives you a look of commiseration and takes off her suit jacket so she can fight with her rogue bra strap.  Then it hits you, she’s not perfect.  Like you, she’s just trying to keep her shit together and make it through the day.  So you shelf that little green jealousy monster, and adjust the bra strap of the perfect stranger.  Why?  Because solidarity sister, our clothing is out to get us; we have to stick together.