I may not know much but I know what I like

Lisa Kogan, a writer-at-large for Oprah Winfrey’s “O” magazine, has the floor.
“You could fill entire football stadiums with all the things that I don’t know.”
I, too, admit to my unknowns—and some of them perpetuate in relentless head-banging fashion.
I don’t know how the manufacturers of pantyhose expect that a pair marketed as a “Size D” (for the apple bottom crew) is going to cover the acreage of 46 inches of hips when the spindly thing measures just seven inches at the waist coming out of the package.
I don’t know why I forget that I have such trouble getting into this nylon contraption. Perhaps I suffer from the same evolutionary glitch as deer, which seemingly have not passed down to the next generation the dangers involved in crossing a busy highway.
When it comes to putting myself into pantyhose for the past 40 some years, I have never learned from my trials, either.
I’ve been in all sorts of situations where the threat of someone walking into the room has presented itself while I am addressing the issue of the pantyhose.
As I have stated in previous column rants about pantyhose, there ought to be a warning label in red bold print that cautions the wearer of “Tummy and Thigh Slimmer” pantyhose to put them on in an isolation booth secured by a deadbolt.
Of course, the booth should be big enough to allow one to lie down because as surely as eggs is eggs, a writhing will occur that begs for a wide berth.
I don’t know how I survive these brief encounters with a two-legged form of shrink-wrap without having to go to counselling.
On two recent occasions while primping for social outings, I’ve been faced with the threat of being seen by another human being whilst stuffing myself into the nylon contraption in an act that emulates the comedic contortionist routine of Jim Carrey.
I was sharing a hotel room with a girlfriend and while she was in the bathroom, I decided to tackle the new pair of pantyhose I’d bought at the mall for the artificial toning beneath my work clothes.
Once again, it was like putting a band-aid on a spurting artery.
I began at the toe, one and then the other, jostled and teetered, and by the time I had the device mid-calf on both legs, the waistband slammed shut, cutting off the blood supply and turning my feet a sickly shade of blue.
I waddled like a penguin to the bedside and crashed on top, where I writhed like a dying snake suffocating in duct tape as I jostled them on.
Lucky for me, my roommate was still in the shower. However, I do believe that had she witnessed my struggle, she would have had the greatest empathy for my plight. Most women would.
The only man who would understand the pantyhose plight is movie star Mel Gibson. And though it would be fun to have Gibson around once in a while, the reality is that I don’t share breathing space at home with someone who tried on pantyhose and gained the ability to hear what women are thinking.
And although I wish that sometimes Jon could read my mind, I have no desire to have him bear witness to the possessed woman I become when I am fighting the nylon demon.
In fact, I’d like to keep things just the way they are where he is none the wiser to what lies beneath.
Just the other day, I had a second isolated session with my shrink-wrap undergarments—and had completed the insanity with a party dress.
I was standing there critiquing myself in the mirror just moments after stuffing back in the little roll of displaced fat at the top of the pantyhose when Jon walked into the bedroom.
“Well, that’s as good as it’s going to get,” I said, twirling ’round.
“You can’t improve on perfection,” said Jon.
“Stop right there. Don’t say another word,” I said with a smile and a wink of my eye.
Lisa Kogan, you have the floor.
“You could fill entire football stadiums with all the things that I don’t know . . . but there is this one little thing about men that I do know with crystal clarity: I know what I like.”

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