Since I’m most annoyed with my knitting—and spent the greater part of the evening giving it the stink eye it deserved—you are about to be treated to a rant. And you are going to think I’m mad as a hatter.
Whatever happened to panty hose?
Years ago, proper young ladies such as myself wore slips and panty hose with our dresses. In “Suntan,” the preferred color. We thought nothing of it. If we needed a little extra support, we spent the extra dollar and bought the control top or “Sheer Energy,” which, when I worked retail, literally changed my life.
Then they vanished. Mysteriously. Like the dinosaur. Or the Anasazi. And women of a certain age, such as myself, wondered what to do.
As I thumb through the fashion press, which currently is presaging spring, I’ve noticed a bumper crop of kicky skirts. And bare legs.
People. I’ve been to Manhattan in March. It’s not so warm. Can’t you just feel the wind whipping underneath those flimsy, pretty little prints? Don’t you get cold? Don’t you nick yourself shaving?
Are your legs so pretty come March that you are willing to expose them to all and sundry on the Red Line, like you don’t even notice their larval cast?
Ladies, no amount of bronzer can address goose flesh.
A friend of mine, who works in a chic, lingerie store, swears by thigh-highs, which apparently are the thing. She insists she doesn’t get cold, but I’m skeptical—this being Colorado. I wonder, too, about “bunching” where elastic meets skin.
I don’t understand the antipathy to panty hose. In the heat of the summer, yes, but in temperate climes, they provide a little extra coverage and color we all need. Are we doomed to wear trousers for nine months of the year?
What’s a girl on the wrong side of 40 to do?