There comes a time in all women’s lives when they must be completely honest with themselves and realize that it’s time to move on. Things of the past are no longer appropriate, or fitting, especially in the crotch.

That’s right, I’m talking about pantyhose.

To attend a recent wedding, I felt the need to look as un-Mommy-like as possible for one afternoon. I borrowed a short, flirty black skirt from a friend, along with a closer-fitting top than I usually wear, and paired them with a set of high heels that would so not work to catch a toddler. The last piece of the puzzle was pantyhose, preferably of the holy variety: I needed a pair that would be miracle workers. Their task, should they choose to accept it, would be holding up and in and smoothing vast stretches of terrain that had been abandoned to sweats and forgiving jeans. It was a not a job for sissies or weak-minded hose; these puppies were going to be put to serious work.

The journey started as many journeys do, in the aisles of WalMart. There I found the rack of hose, taller than me, and proceeded to look for the brand I wanted. Then I moved to color. (Black? Near black? Nude?) Then style. (Energizer? Silky? Take-me-to-Tahiti?) Then size. Here is where my honesty came into play.

The box of pantyhose had a self-sizing chart on the back, so you could find the right hose. You followed the line of your hight to the column of your weight, and voila, ther is the colored indicator of your correct size. You then pick a package emblazoned with your size in handy letter format- A,B,Q or Q-Plus.

Who invented this system? I bet it’s the same folks who made bowling shoes and rental skates have your size on the back, and they are only available by shouting your shoe size to some tiny teenager with a hearing problem: “”I said nine and a half or tens, please. YES, I am an Amazon, thank you for noticing.””

Under the glaring lights of the super store I made a startling discovery. If I’ve read the chart right, I have apparently traveled some in my sizing. The little boxes of height and weight indicated that I have moved on up in the world, despite my remaining the same height as I was in high school.

(By the way, there is some dispute about that particular fact, too. I never really remember how tall I am. I’d measure myself, but I’d just forget. Remembering my age is hard enough, I don’t need any more semi-useless facts, thank you. I’d look at my driver’s license, but I gave them that information, too, so we know how accurate that is. You can tell them anything and they’ll believe you. Put your ideal weight down next time, see who stops you.)

So, yeah, I guess my height, and move on to guessing my weight. That, too, is a challenge. Going by my clothes I’d say I’m nowhere near my driver’s license’s wishful thinking, but hey, if I get stopped for holding up traffic in the drop-off circle at Windsor Creek Elementary School, I want the APB to sound good.

If I guessed even close to my current weight I’m now on the cusp of a new level of sizing, if not outright in it’s zone, and in the interest of having a chance to breathe, sit, and still carry on a conversation, I chose to claim my new size rather than buy the smaller letter. Glancing around furtively, I chose two packages of control-top, industrial strength, energizing, silky hose marked with a scarlet Q (okay, the Q was more of a burgundy color, but still…) and threw them in my cart.

I now wear Queen-size pantyhose.

There. I said it.

I like to pretend it’s a graduation of sorts, from princess to queen. Queens are regal, after all. Rulers of nations, all that. But mostly, I am royally glad I don’t have that many occasions to wear pantyhose, Queen size or not. Even if I did look cute.