the beige pantyhose decision

Photo by Mark Shaw, 1953

I like old buildings, gardens, light rooms, special book editions, people watching, photographs, intriguing artwork, concerts, fashion. An old Singer sewing machine stood in the lounge I grew up in, elegant and unusable, but not purposeless. I remember dabbing raw blisters with methylated spirits after ballet, but it was a sacrifice I made gladly for dancing en pointe. Ben and I drive to a further suburb to walk Wolfie amongst the villas and gardens, for the visual pleasure of those streets. Aesthetics enrich life, and I lean on the side of favouring them over practicalities on occasion.

It is ironic that I now exist in a state of aesthetic normality and functional disarray, and I despise it. You would think this is the way around I would have things. I have lost count of how many people have commented on my healthy looks and youthful externals. I may look fine, but what would I give to have a functional body instead? Would I give up my outward normality for energy and vitality?

A related question has arisen since my diagnosis of POTS. My stretchy blood vessels facilitate such good pool parties down in my legs and feet that the blood is slow to return to higher regions, leaving me with a dizzy head and malaise, soo much malaise. According to my specialist, I’d be better on all fours, like some kind of less evolved human.  All the exercise, and salt, and medications have improved me, but far from fixed me.

When compression stockings were mentioned a couple of years ago as a way to improve my quality of life, I put them in the not-ever-doing-that basket. I’m not eighty, with protruding veins. I’m not wearing thick nasty stockings throughout summer and forgoing dresses and shorts. I’ve changed my occupation, diet, social life, future dreams – I think I will just keep my freedom to wear whatever I like, thankyou very much.

But currently shipping from America is a pair of hideous beige medical compression pantyhose.

In the end, I would rather stand and more than exist, than lie around with bare legs on a summer day. In my wardrobe there is no skirt or dress that reaches below my knees. Assuming the tights improve my functionality, I will have to change the way I dress radically, and I find the thought distressing. But that’s just my aesthetic nature holding on tight. If I really do feel more alive when I wear compression, I don’t think I’ll be lamenting my maxi skirt, because on occasion, function wins hands down.

Also: Audrey Hepburn. Radiant in long.