Nylon-impaired and glad of it

I've been doing some research in ancient Monticolas for a story assignment. Ancient Monticolas, by the way, are old yearbooks from Sandpoint High School, dating as far back as 1914. That statement is a bit inaccurate because the yearbook switched from being called the White Pine to Monticola in 1921. Of course, all tree aficionados know that the Latin name for white pine is "pinus monticolas."

Apparently, the yearbook class at Sandpoint High School decided to add a touch of sophistication to their annual by going Latin. Of course, that would be a sin based on this year's Legislative rulings that Idaho is an English-only state. Let's see what is the origin of "Idaho"?

Off track, I am. Back to the research. While looking through the Monticolas, I came upon a couple of traditions I haven't seen in years: the class will and the class prophecy. Now we still had both when I served as editor of the Cedar Post in 1964-65. Cedar Post, by the way, is the name of our high school newspaper.

And, they were thinking cedar way back when they were changing the annual's name to Monticola, cuz they had Cedar Post staff members listed each year. Of course, I don't know how many people in this "English only" state would be keen on reading the Postus Plicata every morning, so maybe it was just easier to stay with Cedar Post.

And, I'd better stay on track, or I'm going to lose you and you'll never find out about the nylons. Of course, while reading the class wills, I could not help but think of the final editiorial I penned in the Postus Plicata in the spring of 1965. What stands out most prominently is the willing of my seamless nylonless runs to some underclass member.

The name escapes me now but not the image of what that poor lackey stood to gain. We still had to wear dresses then, and by high school they'd improved the nylon comfort considerably from the days of my pocket girdle and seamed nylons in seventh grade. Of course, taking off the nylons and leaving on the non-panty girdle gave me my first lesson of physics. Took me only a couple of hours to learn that lesson and reaped the benefits of the world's first pocket girdle to boot.

Somehow most situations with nylons and me didn't bode well. The earliest involved the pilfered colored nylons during my mail theft days. They were supposed to go to Mrs. Hudon for her 4-H arts and crafts projects; instead, they first went to the woods under the monticola and plicata trees. That's where I opened them from the box and wrapped them around my neck as if they could double for a rich mink stole.

Later, I threw them back into the ditch near the mailboxes from which I'd stolen them. Later, my mother saw them while riding her horse and suspected that possibly Marianne was up to something illegal. Her suspicions proved correct and were confirmed when the Federal postal authorities came for a visit. So, maybe that incident way back in my childhood established a primal hatred for nylons.

Well, by high school I endured them, but they seldom endured more than one hour's worth of my wear. With me, nylon runs emerged like most teenagers' zits----out of nowhere and often for no apparent reason.

Oh yeah, we could blame those huge metal cafeteria tables that we had to crawl into every morning as we yakked and studied before school. They could snag ya when you least suspected, and those library tables had lots of slivers sticking out waiting to grab unsuspecting legs as they sat down for an hour of study hall with Mr. Gapp.

Try as I might I could never control these blemishes to my latest pair of hose as they'd start out as just a little pin-prick hole and quickly tickle their way up my leg. It was not uncommon for me to come home with a three or four-run day. The worst part was that we were poor. Very much like the shoes of elementary days which shrank within a month as they covered my ever-growing feet, I knew that my nylon allotment was limited.

So, in spite of ravaging first-day assaults, my nylons had to function for several days thereafter. And, so for several days thereafter, my legs looked as if I'd contracted some disease. The only relief from total humiliation was that it was Sandpoint, and in Sandpoint most of us were a little rough around the edges---and in my case, the legs.

Since the high school days, I've dealt with all sorts of situations with newer, improved panty hose, and I'm sad to say never much better. Besides the run factor, my ever-fluctuating weight has made it difficult to decide if I'm a queen or king-size, and making the wrong decision with a quick purchase of Leggs fifteen minutes before showing up at a wedding can be a hindrance. That's especially evident when you bought the queen instead of the king and the crotch will stretch upward only to mid-thigh.

It's not fun walking around greeting other guests with your inner thigh fat rubbing together and getting all sweaty and raw cuz your nylons don't come up far enough to keep those globs away from each other. Then, there are those subsequent moments when you excuse yourself, go to the john and pull for all you're worth to get the damn things to come up just a little further to avoid the battle of the blobs.

You think you've almost got 'em where they belong when suddenly the next worst thing to blob rubs occurs. The crotch splits, and now there's a big hole with sharp edges. You know the edges are sharp because once you leave the john, they start digging into the blubber which is pooching out through the hole.

I guarantee that with this situation, the hobnobbing with other guests after the ceremony ends pretty damn quickly. After all, how can you concentrate on what's happening face to face when there's so much action distracting you in crotchville? By this time, you could care less if there's one of those pin-prick holes tickling its way up the side of your leg.

Just get out of here, stop at the nearest convenience store, rip off those nylons, throw them in the trash, drive home and get back in your jeans where life is good, life is once again sane, and life is once again much more comfortable.

No, with my lifetime of disastrous hosiery-related experiences, I don't mind one bit being nylon-impaired in my retirement. In fact, I doubt I could even find a pair in my house right now. And, if I did, I'd write a will and bestow what nylons I do own to my worst enemy.

To __________, I hereby bequeath all my hosius pantius to be kept for perpetuity.