The other day, one of my friends asked me if I ever wear pantyhose. After nearly choking on my lunch and exclaiming “Oh God, no!” I explained that there was no reason for me to wear pantyhose, since I’m not a bank robber, the Duchess of Cambridge, or a pregnant woman trying to avoid varicose veins.
I will admit that Spanx is an incredibly cute name for pantyhose, but it’s still pantyhose.
I remember the days when my parents would force me to wear pantyhose to church or fancy events. The worst part was having to get into those things.
They were so tight. It felt like I was squeezing a condom onto a watermelon.
That wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was dealing with the top of the pantyhose. The band would cut into my stomach, thereby creating these unflattering rolls of fat. I might as well have been a chain of sausage links.
“They’re a perfect fit for you,” my mom would say.
They were a perfect fit for a fetus, not me.
“They make your legs look nicer.”
Apparently ham hocks stuffed into matte nylon casings looked nicer than my natural legs.
My mom used to wear pantyhose almost everyday for work, and we tried to tell her that her legs looked better without it. Even the cat agreed, but she never listened.
Then one day, our old cat Speedo couldn’t take the sight of it anymore, and he took matters into his own hands:
Please do your part to save a cat. Ditch the pantyhose. Who’s with me?