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Health & Fitness

The Middle Ages: Tormented by Pantyhose

Spanx, umbrellas and vacuum cleaners--spell agony for Studio City drama queen. .

-By Marla Hart

Pantyhose are instruments of torture. 

In days of yore when I snapped on my first pair for a date to see Taxi Driver with boyfriend Mark, pantyhose gripped me at the waist like a Visigoth. I wore pantyhose and a veil and we danced in front of the three-tiered wedding cake that June.

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Nowadays I have the Spanx. These medieval-ish contraptions are the flying buttress for Middle Agers as they keep all errant body mass from the evils of gravity. I’ll say this—Spandex sure makes it easier for me to get in and out of the car at the Whole Foods parking lot on Coldwater. I pass the gauntlet to anyone in the World Wrestling Federation—go ahead try throwing me to the mat. I’m not going down, I have just that much tummy control!   

There are other instruments of torture that haunt me in my Middle Age. I've come to hate the umbrella. Kids these days are smart, they wear hoodies. Me, creature of habit that I am, I still believe in the J.K. Rowling-like fantasy world of Totes.

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Husband number two and I both suffer from MUD --Multiple Umbrella Disorder. We own a gigantic rainbow-hued umbrella acquired from a Kate Hudson movie junket at the Four Seasons. It has blown inside-out so many times, two bent spokes could function as a hand mixer. We have a black umbrella, swag from a Get Smart junket. Its threads have torn from the runner to the point where it folds and fills with water. (A problem only DaVinci could solve). The red pocket-sized freebie from Bloomingdales, which has an automatic button press has stopped opening automatically. Our best umbrella blew away one midnight as we picked up after our dog Huck on Klump Street. On wiki DDL under the heading “umbrella” it says, “our initial finds show that it will be difficult to make improvements.” 

Thanks for that!

Now we all are tortured by traffic in L.A. but I believe I have found the worst offending traffic light in the Valley. It is at the intersection of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and Sunshine Terrace. Its left-turn signal torments me daily. My hair could turn gray as I wait for the left turn red arrow to turn green (which lasts for, say, three seconds). Last night, nine cars deep, I waited for six minutes only to watch some smug Prius driver block my window of left-turning opportunity by sailing past the left-turn lane long after their light goes red. 

You're welcome ye old arsehole.

Back at the fortress, I lug the torture device in residence from its corner. I refer to vacuum cleaner number seven. Did Target say in the oh-my-aching-back description online you’ll need superhuman strength and a couple of Advil to operate? And as I get older, I wonder, can we ever know the answers to such universal questions as: Is there enough suction, is there enough battery juice, how does the pipe thingy connect to the other thingy? How many dog hairs are too many dog hairs? How can I get that noisy motor to stop reminding me that hope does not spring eternal after getting a Dirt Devil?

And really, these days where do I buy a fan belt? I’m pretty sure I can use some Spanx.

Next week in The Middle Ages: Looking Like Grandpa

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