We’ve heard over and over again that an author should write what they know. Well, dear hearts,when I wrote that scene in The Ladies’ Room about Trudy going to the bathroom during her great-aunt’s funeral and poking a hole in her support panty hose, it was written from absolute, bonafide experience.
When panty hose first came out, I wanted to kiss the ground the woman walked upon who had designed them. I know it was a woman because what they replaced had to have been designed by a man who knew nothing of cheesy thighs. If he had he wouldn’t have made a garter belt with those bumpy things to hold up stockings. You know what I’m talking about. Those hard plastic nubs that we had to sit on all day long. By the time I got home I from church or school you could bury a marble in the hole that thing had poked into the back of my leg.
We had a party the day I bought my first pair of panty hose. And then I found out the real truth! I didn’t have holes in the backs of my legs anymore but getting them on required a fork lift, two pairs of heavy duty pliers and a good friend who did not mind sweating. Getting the legs up over my toes, my calves, my knees and my cellulite thighs did not mean the job was finished. The seam that was supposed to go to the top of my legs stopped two inches down from crotch level and that thin tight elastic, the one that was supposed to rest comfortably on my waist, cut a groove across my tummy.
That’s when I found out they came in sizes and there was a chart on the back. When I ran my finger across the weight and height, I found a note in small print that read, “Go get your garter belt back out of the drawer.”
Finally enough women marched on the plastic egg factory that they made a size for us folks who had healthy legs. Problem solved. I was back in that euphoric state where I was ready to share my gold plastic crown from Disney World with the woman who invented them.
Until the day I went to a funeral and had to scurry off to the bathroom in the middle of the eulogy. I jerked down the panty hose and my finger nail went through them, right there on the inside of my right thigh. No problem. These were the newest, best thing yet. They were made of that stuff used to build space ships, guaranteed to never run (I didn't even own a bottle of clear finger nail polish anymore). I could live with a hole in the leg as long as I didn't have an embarrassing run working its way down to my toes.
I pulled them back up and a bubble of fat was so happy to be set free that it jumped right out that hole. I could almost hear those little fat cells singing, “I’ll Fly Away,” with the chorus when I returned to the funeral. The other fat cells joined right in and the bubble grew until it was the size of a golf ball hanging out there rubbing against my other thigh. And those fat cells called upon all the others in my legs, offering them freedom from oppression. A mutiny was in the making.
Did I mention this was all in July in
That meant the freed fat cells were sweating so they were sticking against my
other leg. I made a hasty trip back to the bathroom, took the blasted panty hose
off and tossed them in the trash. Removing them caused me to work up a sweat so
believe me when I tell you that I knew exactly what Trudy was feeling. She
wanted to take them off and strangle her two cousins. I wanted to take mine off
and strangle that woman who claimed to have designed them. I’d bet you dollars
to cow patties that it was her husband who really created the things and she
got the rights in the divorce. Texas
Just thinking about all that work to get them on and get them off makes me thirsty. Let’s have some sweet tea and give thanks that the new trend is not to wear stockings or panty hose.