I belong to what might be one of the longest running women’s groups in the country. We began during the era of consciousness-raising (mothers in our early 20s, we discussed nursing bras as much as bralessness) and supported each other through divorce, death, and contemplations of cosmetic surgery. (So far it’s a no.)
We have eternal loyalty and ferocious debates.
We’ve argued over Hilary vs. Obama. The safety of hormone therapy. And whether to go barelegged with business and fancy dresses. What to do in the summer? Winter, thank goodness, is tights season — and tights season seems to stretch longer and longer. Don’t you think there is a reason? Few will admit it, but there is a growing group of us who want to say ‘hell yeah’ to pantyhose. Sheer, lovely, shimmery pantyhose. Yes to hiding the signs of aging that, unlike wisdom and increased empathy, do not delight: Veins waving hello. Leg ‘freckles’. Creepy bits of crepe.
By simply slipping on sheers, even the cheapest Brand X, our legs could match our Spanx-smoothed torso. If only the fashion police would allow.
And yet... (back to the women’s group and our argument soon) in the past decade or so, freedom from pantyhose somehow segued into an iron-clad rule against wearing panty-hose, unless one wanted to mark oneself as 1) elderly to the point of coffin-bound, 2) prudish as a Victorian, or 3) so fashion-dumb as to likely be wearing an un-ironic beehive.