>The Battle of the Pantyhose

>It was the Most Romantic Night of the Year, and for an 8 1/2 month pregnant lady, I had to admit I looked pretty damn good. My makeup was flawless, my cheeks rosy, and even my hair miraculously was cooperating. I slipped a black velvet dress over my head and noted with satisfaction that it flattered my swollen frame about as well as anything I could’ve chosen. There was only one problem: My legs were now exposed.

My legs, frankly, are something I try not to think that much about right now. My ankles are swollen, shaving is nearly impossible, putting on lotion is a pain (literally) and since I can’t even see them beneath my enormous belly, generally, I simply cover them with black knit pants and pretend they don’t exist.

Tonight, though, this wasn’t an option. Resignedly, I blew the dust from the handles of the dresser drawer containing my panty hose and chose the stretchiest sheer pair I could find. Rather than blowing $15 on a pair of maternity hose, I opted to get out the scissors and simply cut down the center of the control panel of a regular pair (which worked really well, by the way). Now, I just had to put them on.

Gingerly, I leaned over and put a foot into one leg of the panty hose, pulling it up to my knee. So far, so good. I leaned over farther to put the other foot…

“Aaaaagh!” I felt a sharp pull in my abdomen. Shit. This was totally not going to work.

I hopped up on the bed and attempted to bring one leg up to my chest and force it into the hose.

“Ack!” The baby inside my belly lurched from the resulting strain. My forehead began to glisten as I thought about my options. Finally, I laid back on the bed, waving my legs in the air and trying to make a foot/hose connection.

“Oooh! Ouch! Shit!” “OUCH!” I cried, trying desperately to get the hose past my ankles. My anxiety was heightened by the knowledge that at that point, Hubs was incredibly likely to walk through the door. He has an uncanny knack (doesn’t every husband?) of entering the room at the exact moment that I’m naked and in some highly unflattering stage of getting dressed. And if he entered the room now, the image that greeted him would likely be burned into his brain forever, causing me all kinds of problems, not to mention bad jokes.

Finally after what seemed like days of painful, red-faced writhing on the bed, I managed to get both sides of the panty hose up to my knees. I sat up, breathless and jumped down to the ground.

“Ohohdamn! That hurt!” I muttered. Grunting like a cavewoman and pulling as hard as I could, I got the panty hose over my hips, then smoothed my dress down and checked myself out in the mirror. Miraculously, there was no evidence of the epic battle my panty hose and I had undergone to reach this shaky truce. I slipped on a pair of heels and checked myself out from the rear.

Oh. Hell. No. Snaking up my ankle was a run. A run that called, well actually screamed for a change of pantyhose.

“Fuck it,” I said exasperatedly, spraying a little hairspray on the run to keep it from going any farther up my leg.

“I am never getting pregnant again. Ever,” I said to my reflection in the mirror as I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.