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...))
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