Like an Old Pair of Pantyhose

Spent. It's Friday night, and I'm totally spent. Not so spent, however, that I couldn't lie in bed trying to come up with a metaphor for just how tired I am. And in my deliriously exhausted stupor, all I could conjure up was an image of a deflated balloon, or alternatively, worn out pantyhose.

I don't wear pantyhose these days. First of all, I haven't had a waist since January 2005, and the architecture of pantyhose is such that a waist is required for their suspension. Secondly, all the yanking I have to do to pull them up usually results in a massive run. Lastly, they make my feet stink and cramp my toes. But still, I remember pantyhose and can relate to their sorry plight.

In the "old days," one of my favourite things about pantyhose was their sense of memory. Like paper that never forgets where it's been folded, pantyhose keep the wearer's shape, or lack thereof, until they are washed. Eventually, even washing can't erase the body's imprint on them. When I used to wear pantyhose, I was struck by their appearance of emptiness, their stretched, gauzy look when I removed them. Lying on the floor beside my bed were my legs in two-dimensions, wrinkled, flacid, a ghost of me.

I have had a good week with the boys, but three days/nights of single parenting while Daddy was away on work business, an hour long mid-night negociation with my two year-old last night, dinner guests and a million other little tasks have piled up. No amount of washing is going to spring me back into shape now. I'm stretched beyond recognition, a translucent blob of momminess, cast off for another night.