What a terrible feeling that is. I really had tossed and turned for about an hour. You know how it goes, no position is comfortable for longer than 90 seconds. You've tried counting backward from 1000. Doesn't work. The sheep you count jumping over the fence are bounding like they've loaded up on triple espressos. Your ears are exquisitely tuned to every minuscule sound; the dog snoring one story down, the house creaking, the rumble of your kid's stomach across the hall. The smell of the doors you just stained with varnish in the basement is wafting into your nostrils and gently metamorphosing from a needle in your nose to a hammer in your head. And no fantasy you try to conjure up will stay in the thoughts hurtling through your wired brain long enough to settle into the somnolence of a dream. So it was last night. Then suddenly, there I was in the midst of worrying over when I was going to get to sleep and shifting the satchel in my hand that I was stuffing with the memoranda I needed for my day at the office, when it dawned on me. I don't own a satchel, and I don't work in an office. I'm dreaming. That must mean I'm sleeping. PLINK!
I'm awake again. Damn. What a surprise. I haven't felt like that since the sixties, when I found out my girlfriend wasn't a virgin after all. Damn newfangled pantyhose
Pantyhose. One of the many inventions today's youth take for granted. Another liberator of the sixties buried in the trivia of history's march. Microminis for the daring devil in you and pantyhose for the prim prude. And what a fashion statement. No more girdles and garters and monobutts. Pantyhose let the individual cheeks emerge in all their glory. Free of snaps, buckles and lines, a subtle gluteal caress on the forefront of pre-thong fashion. (Or is that backfront, or foreback?)
And pantyhose were versatile. Great for everything from showing a lot of leg to robbing a bank. Nothing more disconcerting to a teller than an empty nylon leg dangling off to one side of your face. Like I say, versatile. My old boss even used them to keep his leg hairs from catching on his double-knits. Who could blame him? Ever wonder about those smooth dance moves of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever? That boy wore pantyhose. You can't tell me that hairy bastard could have worn that much knit polyester without epiladying himself into a coma.
It's enough to keep you awake at night thinking about it.
