Pandora's Pantyhose

Bought a pair of pantyhose last week.  Was in the unique position of feeling good about myself.   Thought I would dress up in a skirt and heels, show the world what I was made of and where I was keeping it.   You know the feeling, don’t you, girls? 

So I took a shower, used the scented shower gel to soften the skin, extra conditioner to soften the hair.   Dried off, scented lotion, scented deodorant (fresh mountain spring laundry on a rainy morning in a meadow or whatever flavor it was).  Then dried my hair, curled it so tight that even Shirley Temple  would have been in awe.  

My makeup was perfect.  My hair was perfect.  I was ready to get dressed.  

I opened Pandora’s Pantyhose.  The evil object jumped out of the package, laid on the floor and stared at me.  A tiny little beige ball.  I picked it up.   I just couldn’t imagine how I was going to get a tiny 4” long pair of nylons onto my considerable bottom half.  If I could manage it, I would simply dub the result as the 8^th Wonder of the World.   

So, I sat on the edge of my bed, pointed my toes in a dainty fashion and wadded up one nylon portal.  I slid it halfway up my calf, then pointed the other group of toes, repeated procedure.  

Now my legs were bound together by this strange apparatus wrapped around my calves.  I had to hop down off the bed, tried to take a step and almost fell over.   I managed to work the nylons up to mid-thigh.   Wiping the sudden droplet of sweat from my brow, I bent over and started to work on the right leg again.   Inch by inch I eeked the nylon northward.  

The skirt I had chosen to wear was a beautiful tweed pencil skirt.  One of the few clothing items that actually makes me look thin.  I started chanting to myself, “it’ll be worth it, really, it’ll be worth it.”

The left leg took a wrong turn somewhere.  It was going sideways and just didn’t feel right.  I slid it back down, struggled to straighten it, and started yanking again.  

As I wiped another bead of sweat from my makeup-covered forehead, I cast a weary glance at the sweater I had chosen to pair with the skirt.   Ugh.  It looked hot.  And not in the good fashion-model way.

Tug, tug.  The waistband of this evil product was finally around my hips.   My left leg was going a bit numb, the tight fabric must have been pressing on a random nerve.  Keep pulling, keep tugging.  

Damn, the crotch part was like an inch too low.  I knew it would bug me all day if I didn’t fix it.  And I’d walk like a penguin.   Not classy.  I pushed the fabric down, pulled it back up.  Tug, tug and I was back in business. 

Almost there, another inch or so.  Control top will suck in all my fat, make my tummy look like I do 1,000 sit-ups a day.  Oh yeah, this will be worth it.  

Inch, pull, inch, scoot and *snap*, the waistband is in place!  Voila! 

I looked down.   When did I grow a second row of boobs?   WTH?   I stomped into the bathroom and looked at the reflection glass.  Pandora’s Pantyhose - what have you done to me?   I see why my stomach looks so flat.  All you did was push all the flab up.  My muffin cup runneth over!!   

Control Top Pantyhose?  B. Freaking S.  Muffin Top Pantyhose is more like it!   

By the way, I still looked fabulous that day.  After I wiped all the sweat off my face, reapplied all my makeup and pulled a tank top out of my closet.   But that is another blog entry.