Pantyhose Won

Little did I know that I would have a fight with my pantyhose and that the pantyhose would win.

When I arrived, the sign in the hotel lobby directed me to the ballroom on the second floor. I stepped off the elevator pulling my rolling suitcase and glancing into the ballroom. The stage had white, 10-foot-high, panels bathed in blue light. The din of the room was loud with almost every seat filled. The convention concierge ushered me backstage.

The meeting planner and I synchronized our watches so I knew when to be backstage before my keynote presentation. She commented on my pretty, sea-foam green, silk dress as the sound technician prepared to “mic” me. She said it would look really nice with the blue panels on the stage. The sound technician was deep in thought as he circled around me once, and then again. And then I realized why. The wireless microphone had a power pack about the size of a deck of cards with a belt clip to attach it to clothing. A belt clip only works if you have, well, a belt that I didn’t have on my dress. After much deliberation, I told him that I would hook it on the waistband of my pantyhose and thread the microphone out the top of my dress. He said not to turn it on until I went on stage because everything I said would be broadcast to the audience, even from the bathroom. There’s another story of how I learned that lesson the hard way.

I had it timed perfectly so that I had a few minutes to get to know some of the audience members. At the appointed time, I ducked into the bathroom, because Mom always said, “Go first.” Well, she may not have meant the bathroom, but that’s how I remember it.

As I was walking down the hallway, I realized that something was different. I didn’t hear any chatter coming from the ballroom. Then I heard, “And now I’d like to introduce our speaker for the day.” I looked at my watch and they had started five minutes early. I had about 1.7 minutes to get backstage before she finished my introduction! Frantically I kicked off my shoes so that I could run faster.

The sound technician fumbled through my silk dress to turn on the microphone. As I was running on stage he looked like he’d just seen a ghost. He said that there was someone in the audience who was hearing impaired. For that person to hear my presentation I needed to wear another device. He handed me a box, the thickness of two decks of cards, that weighed just shy of 20 pounds. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but it was heavy. And you guessed it, the only place to hook it was on the waistband of my pantyhose. This could be a TV commercial, “Your pantyhose hold up, even when you don’t.”

I walked on the stage to thunderous applause and opened with a story, demonstrating my points with arm movements and walking around. When I took a little hop, I felt both power packs shift, but didn’t see them on the floor, so I assumed they were still in place.

But then I began feeling an odd sensation around my belly button. I thought it must be one of the cords sliding around. Next, I felt something a little lower. Then there was an unusual feeling on my back. I became somewhat distracted by what was happening beneath my dress! Then it occurred to me that gravity and the power packs had joined forces and were pulling down the top of my pantyhose. I needed to find a subtle way to give them a good old schoolgirl yank.

Suddenly the feeling slid over my stomach and started travelling at warp speed down my legs. I tried to step to the side, but I couldn’t move—my knees were bound together like a straightjacket. It was time for emergency action. I cut my story short and initiated a two-minute activity to distract the audience. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the white panels with the blue lights. As the audience was engrossed in the activity I waddled, knock-kneed behind the panel and gave a huge yank, hoping that the waistband would not come flying off like a rubber band sending my hose down around my ankles. As far as I know the audience was none-the-wiser about my predicament.

I was reminded of this story when I saw the dress that I wore that day in my closet. It no longer fit, but I was keeping it for sentimental reasons. It was time for it to find a new home and in fact, other clothes that were taking up space needed to go too.

Today’s gift was to gather my clothes and all their memories and take them to Goodwill. Hopefully whoever takes them home will not have to break up a fight between their pantyhose and the pretty, sea-foam green, silk dress.

In Giving,

Robin