Freedom in Women’s Black Pantyhose

Michael wanted attention. No, wanted isn’t the right word . . . demanded. Michael demanded attention. He is a performer extraordinaire. Almost always he is talking louder than others, doing things bigger than others, “others” is probably best defined as his little brother, but I want to offer the benefit of the doubt to the wider audience who has been overtaken by the performer, myself included. This night, as Michael is eight years old, Michael did something that made me bend over with laughter, so much so that tears ran down my face. He’s lanky for sure. Slender, chai latte creamy brown colored skin, long brown hair with his brown eyes, he is such an incredibly beautiful child. Some say he looks like me, but I think he looks like him.

The black pantyhose looked different on me than they did on him. I’ve not seen a Cirque du Soleil show as of yet, but I assure you that was what I was picturing as he became this slender, black-limbed tree dancing and singing around the bedroom.

Yes, Michael sported my black pantyhose, pulled all the way up to his armpits. I thought I was going to spew out of my nose from laughing so hard. After he was done performing for the crowd, which consisted of me and his little brother and probably the two cats, he remained in the pantyhose while reading books and lounging in the rocking chair. Oh, the joys of wide-open children and black adult-size medium pantyhose on eight-year-old boys.

Freedom is joyous and hysterical.

(Can’t find a photo anywhere—you’ll have to use your imagination.)

 

 

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