Kate Middleton, or Princess Kate, Lady Kate, whatever pompous noble title the British continue to dutifully use to dote and adhere, and I had nothing in common, she being an obnoxiously wealthy and waifish princess, primped and primed to inherit, at least iconically, the throne of the British empire, myself being a perpetually bored and exhausted worker in America, who, hopefully, will one day ascend to the uninteresting and unimpressive ranks of middle management. Until today. Today, I decided to don, for the first time in years, the now ubiquitous and invasive nude panty hose, a concept fallen far and deep from graces until this lanky, bone prominent frame pulled them from the depths of shame on her rise to royalty.
This event was momentous to me not so much because I was mildly emulating a Middleton, rather, because I was heeding advice from my mother that had been much resisted, with tears and force, over eight years ago. I remember, very specifically and vividly, in preparing for my first high school dance, the homecoming, my mother refusing to allow me to leave the house in bare legs. I was, like many girls my age, sufficiently awkward with my new breasts and bad skin, certainly did not require any bolstering in that arena with suffocating, matronly, flesh colored hose that stuck to my calves and thighs like leftover lipstick from the kiss of a wrinkled grandmother, stale coral, resistant to soap and water. I am positive I cried, but, ultimately, she triumphed; while I was miserable for a moment, the effect was not necessarily permanent, though, it has been embedded enough that I can recall it all now. For the record, I was also filled with disdain for my sophisticated and elegant black dress, one that while in university, I continued to wear, because, indeed, it was flattering and sexy, and I was too stupefied by hormones and fear of social inadequacies at fifteen to understand this. The dress in question, which I finally discarded when I moved away from Ithaca, a decision I continue to regret, was cocktail length, fitted, and featured criss-crossing triplet straps across the shoulder blades and middle back. For a second record, I was not officially asked to dance, though, few of my generation tended to adopt such formality even with the prettiest of high school girls in their glittered and polyester garments, and was overall ignored by any creature unfortunate enough to be harboring a Y chromosome, attempting to finish their own slow and tedious development. To complete my case, I was wearing a pair of open toe black heels; from where had I so vehemently worshiped the notion of no hose with open toes, I have no idea. Regardless, the entire affair mortified me, again, at least momentarily, until I was safe in the confines of a sweltering and sweating gymnasium with my few girl friends, who surely neither noticed nor cared.
A bit wiser, and a bit more confident now, at least with my emotional and intellectual self, today, I finally embraced the many obvious advantages of the nude hose: streamlined appeal and coverage for both wanton or neglected leg hair, as well as unseemly scars, of which I have numerous, given my illustrious career as a high school basketball, lacrosse, and soccer player. Here in Rome, where it is lusciously warm, I felt uncomfortable wearing my standard opaque black or navy house, especially given my light camel dress, tailored and well suited for a professional endeavor, with its accompanying bronze, camel, and cream tweed jacket. Nude was the most prudent, and the most flattering. In fact, due to my recent participation in an adult, co-ed, embarrassingly competitive and trying basketball league, I have some nasty bruises on my knees; immediately, they were shielded, hidden beneath the sheer and superficially sparkling façade of nylon glory. Mother, on this point, I do concede, though, I must admit, I still am apprehensive of the nude with the open toe, despite having warmed to the trend with the electric bright tights. I suppose I need another eight years.
(image taken from Hot Momma Gossip)