As I write this I am sitting in the kitchen, a circa 1982 Madonna-Like A Virgin-size rip in the left leg of my support hose which I am wearing under denim shorts. Thankfully the right leg, the one doing the actual work, remains intact. It is November and here on the Coast of Illinois it is 70 degrees. Did I mention that I am in support hose?
"Why?" you might ask. (Although a sane person would just accept it and walk away.) But we both know that ship has sailed so I will tell you. I went round two with Veinessa this week and my reward was three rolls of tape wrapped around the my leg from just above my knee to mid calf as wells as a sentence of support hose for four days. Something about keeping the vein compressed and causing me much discomfort. I feel as though I am being punished for some previous crime against humanity. I am telling you right now, you make a terror suspect wear a pair of support hose for four days and that person will talk faster than a Kardashian can get married. Feed them a bean dinner and they won't last six hours.
You think I exaggerate? Let me paint you a little picture. Imagine sticking both feet into a rubber tube that will only stretch apart six inches. Now pull this rubber tube up both legs, avoiding the tender taped up area behind your knee. Next fling yourself on your back, both feet in the air, while you frantically try to loosen the tension caused by an excess of fabric wrapped around your calf so tight your baby toe has turned purple. Curse. Give one, final mighty tug, thus putting your entire fist through the nylon which attaches the lower half of the tube to the upper half of the tube. Curse, curse,curse. You can't change pairs because the back up is in the wash so you soldier on with the now semi-disabled stockings finally ending up with so much extra compression fabric that the waistband sits just under your second rib while the crotch remains firmly hammocked halfway up your thighs.
And that is why I find myself wearing two-thirds of a pair of support hose. If only I had thought ahead . The YouTube video would have made enough money to pay for my current treatment and psycho-therapy for the video's first hundred viewers.
(ps-I can't even begin to speak to the actual ripping off of the tape. It is now a suppressed memory destined to surface when I am an eighty year old nursing home patient.)
((pss- and while the nursing home attendants wrestle to restrain me they will comment on how lovely my vein free legs are...so there's that...))