Growing up, Mom preferred that I wore stockings with every dress. I hated them. I was always snagging them, or I got a bad kind and they were like plastic and sticking to me. Sunday mornings were always a little stressful, deciding what I could wear according to which of my stockings didn’t have holes in them.
And, inevitably, once I got to church, I’d managed to rip them while sitting in the car, doing absolutely nothing. Or I chose a pair that had a hole near the top, but when I got up, they’d run all the way down to my heel.
But then, fishnets entered my life. They come in a merciful variety of colors and patterns, and though my cousin-in-law will tell me they’re for tarts, I don’t care.
Because at the end of the day, I can’t have more holes in them than I originally started with.