Well, here’s a useless factoid. Did you know that pantyhose can die without ever having been worn? I felt like wearing a skirt today to my sewing class. It wouldn’t have looked good to wear long socks, so I rifled around in my stocking drawer and pulled out a pair of cocoa brown Vanity Fair pantyhose in the original packaging, unopened. My first hint should have been the cellophane tape that cracked rather than peeled off the plastic flap.
I unfolded them from the cardboard sleeve and did my usual stretch of the waistband, then slipped them first onto my right foot then my left, and rolled them up slowly. They were a bit loose and didn’t have the usual shine, but I settled them over my hips, put on my skirt, finished applying my makeup and went on my way. When I hopped out of my car an hour later, I was so bundled up and busy wrestling my sewing machine, my rolls of tracing paper patterns and my fabric samples that I didn’t notice anything awry until I was standing by the elevator. My skirt was feeling tight and I couldn’t figure out why. After I dumped my stuff in the classroom and hung up my coat, scarf, took off my boots and spread out my patterns, I detoured to the washroom and checked out what was going on under my clothing. The crotch of the pantyhose had sagged to mid-thigh. I pulled up and not much happened except that I had a wad of nylon in my fist. Good thing I was alone in the washroom because I doubled over laughing. It looked like I was sporting drop-crotch 80s dancing pants.
What was even more odd about all this was my online search for an illustration using the term ‘saggy pantyhose’. Lots of packages of Eatons brand stockings on eBay (the stores closed in 2002, so you get an idea how old my stash was). The Transgender Pantyhose series was interesting.
Photos of over-chesty youngish women in provocative poses. The results also included dozens and dozens of of photos of large long-haired dogs sporting the undergarments on their back legs. What the hell is that? Some of the pantyhosed pooches were lounging like starlets with their masters (yes, primarily men do this, it seems) on a couch or the floor. Go do your own search if you wish.
Having spent years trying to get small children’s limbs into clothing, I have an idea how difficult getting a skittish animal into the hose must have been.
But hey. There’s no accounting for taste, or kinky. I have no idea why Rover didn’t take a bite out of someone’s hand or other soft tissue body part. The world is a weird and wonderful place, isn’t it?