No Pantyhose Rule
You can tell a lot about a girl who refuses to wear stockings. Or at least you can imagine there's a rebel that lurks inside that bare legged beauty who braves business luncheons, brisk weather, and baby showers with her skin exposed.
I stopped wearing stockings at the tender age of eighteen when I left home for college. Little did I know that that seemingly insignificant revolt against the style norms I was subjected to by ma and granny (and their beloved church wardrobe rules) would be the beginning of my irreverent tendencies.
I always hated stockings. I hated the word stockings (and even more so pantyhose ... ugh). I couldn't stand the way they cut into my gut and snagged even the finest hair on my legs. It annoyed me that I struggled to find a pair that matched my skin tone. It perplexed me that they never lasted beyond three wears (even the $20 department store brands fell subject to those dreadful runs).
But worse yet is what they signified to me. They seemed so awfully old-fashioned. A non-necessity that was physically and psychologically restricting. The epitome of what not to wear for any young woman who considers herself (or aspires to be) free.
I've been dressing myself sans-stockings for over a decade now and I can't imagine the person I'd be if they had remained a permanent fixture in my wardrobe.
Sketch by Regards Coupables