Other articles by Bonnie Henry:

Bonnie Henry : I might be all thumbs at times, but it doesn't include texting Bonnie Henry : 16 sea battles hard to forget Grandson Hank keeps legacy alive George the patriarch took the reins Bonnie Henry : Amos means Tucson Realty & Trust Bonnie Henry : Pioneer pool builder helped keep us afloat Memories of one of our oldest neighborhoods Bonnie Henry : Summers of old glow in memory Summer memories Bonnie Henry : Kids' book takes wing

Administrative & Professional
Tucson Urban League
CEO/President Construction
West-Press
Printing Administrative & Professional
Jorgensen Brooks Group
Counselor Finance and Accounting
Charles E. Gillman Company
Accounting Specialist Mechanical
Komatsu Equipment Co
Resident Field Mechanic Health Care
Dependable Health Services
Physical Therapists Health Care
CENTRAL ARIZONA COLLEGE
DIRECTOR OF HEALTH INFORMATION MANAGEMENT

I still remember the day I got my first pair. They were sheer, silky to touch, and held up by a contraption that must have been first cousin to the chastity belt.

They were, of course, nylon stockings.

I was in junior high when I slipped on my first pair — probably about the same time my mother handed me a razor, sighed, and said, "Oh, all right, you can start shaving your legs."

Now that I think about it, the nylons may have been just a ruse to get at that razor.

For I soon tired of my stockings, with their proclivity to runs and their propensity to stick to the thighs whenever the temperature rose above 80.

That garter belt wasn't much fun either, what with all its attendant hardware.

Still, I had it easier than the girls at Salpointe High, who were required to wear stockings to school.

And no, it is not an urban myth that some of those good Catholic girls ran an eyebrow pencil down the back of their legs to simulate the seams that stockings once sported.

It got a little better after pantyhose were invented.

That is, if you enjoyed tugging two tubes of nylon up from your toes to your belly button, only to discover that somehow in the process you had managed to twist your left stocking so that its toe section now stuck out from your heel.

Even so, I wore the things through much of my working career, including a brief stint as a miscellaneous clerk, toiling away in the basement of the old Tucson Gas and Electric office on West Pennington Street.

Never mind that we never saw a customer, let alone the light of day, during working hours.

Stockings were the rule. Then again, so was no smoking except in the ladies' room (men were allowed to smoke at their desks) and the certain knowledge that we could never attain the really plum jobs, such as meter reading.

Sometime after pantyhose, thigh-high hose became popular. These were a decided improvement — as long as you didn't mind your upper thighs being gripped in a tourniquetlike vise for 11 hours a day.

They were only slightly cooler than pantyhose — a fact that re-registered in my brain at the beginning of every summer.

Only Saran Wrap coiled around each leg could have collected more sweat.

For several summers, I used to make an unofficial pact with the Star's copy chief. The day he donned his guayabera for the summer was the day I ditched the pantyhose.

After he retired, I shed the stockings for good. And surprise, surprise: Somehow, my naked shins didn't seem to negatively impact the work I did.

Even better, I no longer had to fear that my lower torso would dissolve in a puddle in the middle of an interview.

But now comes word that some women are having to shimmy back into their nylons.

A few days ago, the Star reported that female employees at University Medical Center must now wear hosiery with skirts and dresses.

As expected, most of the women interviewed for the story decried the new edict.

Now, since most hospitals are as cold as a crypt, I doubt these women will suffer on-the-job heat palpitations. Crossing the parking lot might be another matter.

Then again, they'll be close to the emergency room, should any of them collapse in a dead faint.

Let's just hope this isn't a trend. If Arizona's heat absolves us of observing daylight-saving time, we can do no less for this state's fair womanhood.

Save Our Gams.