You have reached our free-content limit. If you are a current subscriber, please log in to continue viewing content or purchase a subscription by clicking the Subscribe button below. Thank you for supporting independent Journalism.

Please log in, or sign up for a new account to continue reading.

Thank you for reading! We hope that you continue to enjoy our free content.

You have reached our free-content limit. If you are a current subscriber, please log in to continue viewing content or purchase a subscription by clicking the Subscribe button below. Thank you for supporting independent Journalism.

You have reached our free-content limit. Please purchase a subscription by clicking the Subscribe button below. Thank you for supporting independent Journalism.

Your current subscription does not provide access to this content.

Thunderstorms during the morning will give way to mostly cloudy skies this afternoon. High 84F. Winds W at 5 to 10 mph. Chance of rain 90%..

A few clouds. Low 64F. Winds light and variable.

Every morning before high school, a collective expletive could be heard in the air above my small hometown in the 1950s and early ’60s, as teen girls twisted and shouted themselves into their nylons.

Legs old enough to shave were old enough to be covered in nettings of woven nylon that stopped at the thigh. A thick, ugly band signaled the end of that sheerness; this was where things got serious.

The nylons didn’t stay up there themselves — they needed a garter belt.

The garter belt was designed for one purpose — to give the tops of your nylons something to connect to. After carefully fitting the toe line evenly across your toes and making sure the heels of the nylons were in the back and not bagged out over your ankle, the pulling process began.

Grabbing a big hunk of material with both hands, we yanked them up. When our calves began to ache and our toes started to curl under, we stopped. The floppy top of the hose (another word for them) hung around our thighs like a fireman’s boot at a street corner charity drive. It was important to hold onto that top, so we didn’t have to start all over.

We buckled our garter belt around our waist; it was time to connect our nylons.

The corseted, elastic belt had metal hooks — two in the front and two in the back — that hung like little gun holsters for teeny outlaws. White, rubbery buttons wiggled like turkey wattles behind the hooks, waiting to trap the nylons between the holsters.

There isn’t a woman over 60 who doesn’t remember the feel of those nickel-sized buttons against her flesh. They tattooed both sides of our legs with deep circles; the back ones were agony after sitting most of the day.

We only endured them because our vanity exceeded our pain thresholds.

It was also necessary, throughout the day, to tighten your nylons. They bagged and twisted as the day wore on, making your legs look like Grandma’s elbows. It was off to the bathroom to unhook, pull, and re-hook your nylons to your garter belt.

By the time the last bell rang, the elastic hooks of your garter belt had been stretched and tightened to their absolute limits. You twanged when you walked like Paul McCartney’s guitar, and David’s slingshot paled in comparison to the weapon potential you had strapped around your waist.

The speed and power of a loose garter hook, if it were to be used for evil instead of good, could easily blind or maim passersby with one flex of a thigh.

After sitting all day in those slide-in wooden desk/chair combos in each classroom — after pep rallies on unyielding bleachers — by the time the bus rattled its way to our stops on its square wheels—our thighs were dented deeply enough to stack coins into the holes the garter belt fasteners had carved.

We didn’t complain much about the discomfort of garter belts and nylons. We considered it part of our gender’s lot in life. If Jackie Kennedy and our favorite movie stars could endure it, we could, too.

Pantyhose finally became the fashion norm in the mid/late 60s. We wriggled into our miniskirts confidently, knowing no hooks or bare thighs would peek out from under our tiny hems.

The good ol’ days. Boy, am I glad they’re gone.

Your comment has been submitted.

There was a problem reporting this.

Keep it Clean. Please avoid obscene, vulgar, lewd, racist or sexually-oriented language. PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CAPS LOCK. Don't Threaten. Threats of harming another person will not be tolerated. Be Truthful. Don't knowingly lie about anyone or anything. Be Nice. No racism, sexism or any sort of -ism that is degrading to another person. Be Proactive. Use the 'Report' link on each comment to let us know of abusive posts. Share with Us. We'd love to hear eyewitness accounts, the history behind an article.