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Where's The Justice in Knee Wrinkles?

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Great gams! I’ve been hearing that since I was twelve years old. It didn’t mean much then, but as I grew older I appreciated the value of good legs. So focused were men on my legs, I often wondered if anyone would notice if I sported a beard. So I took care of them. I exercised them, pampered them with creams and lotions twice a day, and shod my feet in stilettos so they’d look nice. I dressed them in the sheerest of hosiery even though I hated pantyhose.

Among other things, moving to Florida freed me from the bonds of marriage and the encumbrance of nylons. It’s positively eerie how similar those two things are: Both are easily ripped wide open, tight enough to make your chest ache, and ghastly expensive to replace. They can almost never be repaired. I swore off both of them forever. And in terms of stockings, I vowed to keep my legs tan enough to banish pantyhose in perpetuity.

When I noticed my legs paling a bit, I donned my swim suit and headed for the pool. With a 50 SPF sunscreen slathered over my face, shoulders, and décolleté, I lay prone on my lounge chair, holding my newspaper straight armed above my face so the shadow would further protect that part of me. I just wanted a light toasting on my legs. I immersed myself into the Sunday New York Times Style section, and allowed the sun to paint my legs.

Later that evening, my legs extended but half bent as I rested my bare feet on the coffee table, I noticed them. What the hell are those white streaky things across my knees? I bent forward to examine further and saw them for the very first time. Truth embraced me like an unwanted lover… raped by reality. I had knee wrinkles, and they were wide and deep. My terror was palpable. I’ve treated my legs so kindly over the years and this betrayal was… well, where’s the justice?

Where did they come from, these bags above my knee caps? I stretched my legs in front of me and jiggled one. Oh yeah, it was real. As it quivered, so did I… with repugnance.

And worse, then came the Aha! moment. I had been on three coffee dates in the last three weeks. As always, my attire consisted of a short skirt with a crisp tidy blouse and high heels. I could tell from the moment these men laid eyes on me, my legs held no appeal to them. Their gaze wandered downward to my sticks, but then their eyes immediately rebounded to my face. I found it unusual, given my past experience.

Now it was clear. I’d never get past the Barnes & Noble café if I continued to expose my knees. No more free ride, slide by, forget I have a beard, check out the legs days. I’m a good closer, but no spiel is smooth enough to make a guy forget those puppies. No sir.

So there you have it. This was a painful coming of age. Like taking a ping pong paddle to the face, I was bludgeoned into realizing that I had become a woman of “a certain age” with my now acknowledged knee wrinkles.

I dressed in slacks with a crisp blouse and high heels; I grabbed my purse, and headed to the mall. I would pick up some panty hose and start scouring the stores for knee wrinkle cream. Somebody has to make it because I can’t be the only one, right?

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