There will be no pantyhose in heaven

This is a slow news day...and blog topic day, so I'm turning to something that is neither newsy nor has been blogged to death. The topic is pantyhose.

There are all kinds of pantyhose--the kind the fits, the kind that doesn't, the kind that runs immediately upon donning and the kind that doesn't run easily but has a matted, mesh look and is downright ugly, whilst being practical and long-wearing. Let's turn to the pantyhose that doesn't fit. You know the kind. The pair that doesn't quite get all the way up to your waist when you're dressing. The kind you pull on until your fingers turn purple, but to no avail. And then you sit down or bend over and your pantyhose prove which direction is south as they roll down faster than a window shade in a house of ill repute. So now you're shackled with a pair of rolled-up pantyhose around your ankles and you shuffle over to the nearest chair or piece of furniture or countertop that will allow you to hold on as you extricate yourself from the nylon hobble. This once happened to me in London. I was en route to church on a Sunday morning (and thought I'd be rewarded for my good choice, but I was wrong) with my pantyhose threatening to short-change me with every step I took. Fortunately, I was wearing a raincoat, so I could discreetly place my hand inside my coat with a firm grip on the waistband, holding my hosiery where it belonged. However, only one small portion (the part my hand could grip) was cooperating. The rest of my pantyhose was rebelling and attempting to secede from its proper place. It didn't matter what my pace was--fast or slow--I was losing the battle. It was broad daylight and I didn't want to add to the idea of the ugly American, so I stepped into one of London's infamous red phone booths, finished the roll-down, stepped out of my pantyhose, put my shoes back on, exited the booth, found the nearest trash can and bid farewell to the faithless hosiery.

Next are the pantyhose that run the moment you put them on. Now, you can either change into a new pair or you can do what I do--lie. When someone notices the run in your hose, you can act surprised (not having eyebrows will help with this deception), look down at the run, express regret, roll your eyes a couple of times and say, "I can't believe I have a run in my stockings!" Liar, liar pantyhose on fire...

Lastly, let's look at the meshy, loose-woven panty hose that look like dusty bunnies gathering for a convention on your legs.

You will note that I didn't discuss pantyhose that fit, because I don't believe that there are any pantyhose in the free world that fit both the waist (comfortably) or the length of the leg or the circumference of the tush. Which is why I have sworn off pantyhose for life. I never have to wrestle with pantyhose that are too short and leave the wearer in a state of high anxiety whenever she is required to bend over, sit down or breath heavily. I never have to worry about a "run" in my leg. I haven't had a "run" in my leg in a very long time. Actually, not since the last time I applied fake tanning lotion in an erratic fashion. And I don't have to wear pantyhose that resemble matted dust bunnies and make your legs look they are sporting a photograph of the craters of the moon.

In the next life, I believe we will all be comfortable and happy and that whatever clothing we wear will contribute to those feelings and that means there will be no pantyhose in heaven, at least, not in my little corner...