Confessions of a pantyhose diva

There ought to be a law, or at the very least a warning label on packages of “Tummy and Thigh Slimmer” pantyhose.
Cautionary advice in bold red print should flag the wearer against being seen by her spouse while stuffing herself into this nylon contraption, or for that matter being seen with them on at any time by anyone other than her own reflection staring back at her in the mirror.
In my neck of the woods, that brief encounter with oneself in the mirror—torso buckled into a two-legged form of shrink-wrap that always seems two sizes too small—is probable grounds for an adjustment reaction counselling session.
And I can’t fathom the mathematical rationale of the pantyhose scientists of the world, whom I highly suspect are male, when sizing guidelines on these diva devices are established.
No matter how much weight is lost beforehand, I never choose the correct size and never once have I managed to get them on without emulating the comedic contortionist routine of Jim Carrey.
I’ve known for years that I should be in an isolation booth when putting on pantyhose and yet I can’t seem to take my own recommendations to fruition.
On Christmas Day, I thought I did.
I waited until Pete was in the shower. I then opened my dresser drawer, rummaged for the unopened package of pantyhose purchased a month earlier, and ripped them open to reveal a scant what looked like “10-inch in length pair of nothing.”
I sat on the edge of the bed with the toes of my right foot drawn in and pointed like a veteran ballerina as I slid them into the end of the nylon legging.
Pete was still in the shower belting out the only line he knows from a Bryan Adams tune: “I wear my sunglasses at night, so I can, so I can, keep track of visions in my mind,” he cried out.
I rolled my eyes and repeated the process for my left foot. But no sooner did I have both feet in the pantyhose did the waistband slam shut around my calves, toppling me over as if my feet were bound with duct tape.
I crashed onto the bed to avoid falling on the bedroom floor and writhed like a dying snake as I pulled and jostled with the pantyhose, cursing the scientist for his mis-measurement of “Size D.”
Ten minutes later, I was in. I lay there gasping for breath, holding it once to listen for the sound of running water.
Thank heaven Pete was still in the shower.
I jumped up and exited the bedroom, and was just in front of the bathroom door on my way to the spare room when my worst fears were realized.
“BETH!” the one bellowed from the shower, in the typical loud and annoying fashion of someone who obviously forgot we live in a 950 sq. ft. house pervious to even the slightest whisper.
“Yes, honey?” I answered in my mouse voice as I opened the bathroom door a sliver, letting out a burst of hot steam that flattened the curls in my hair.
“Could you put some toothpaste on my toothbrush and hand it to me?” he asked.
What the heck. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to calculate that I could slip him the pasty toothbrush past the edge of the shower curtain without revealing my not-so-nifty thigh huggers.
But I didn’t factor in that Pete would whip open the shower curtain and look out at me standing there vacuum-sealed in my pantyhose while loading the Colgate.
It was a “deer in the headlights” moment for both of us as I turned round to face him, eyes wide open, and dropped his toothbrush in the toilet as he shrieked out in high octaves.
I’d like to believe he was crying out over the toothbrush floating in the toilet water, but I tend to think it was a painful reaction to the retina scarring that came from seeing me in my hosiery.
If he wishes to remain healthy, he will not, however, in one million light years, ever admit to this theory.

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