I tugged. I pulled. I cussed. I wiggled. I huffed. I puffed. I grunted.

Finally. Success!

I threw myself back on the bed in utter exhaustion.

After a Wonder Woman attempt, I was in my pantyhose.

I swear, it took me ten minutes to get into those suckers.

I tried to think how long it had been since I had last worn a pair of pantyhose.

Hmmm. Let's see. I think Reagan was president or was it Bush, the old man?

No matter. It had been so long I couldn't remember.

In the summer time if I wear dresses, I go stockingless. In the winter, I don't do dresses. That would mean I'd have to shave my legs, which is a major undertaking for me in the winter months. Slacks and jeans are just so much more comfortable and warmer.

But, this was a special occasion. It was a wedding. I was wearing a dress. I even shaved my legs.

As I stood in front of the mirror, I noticed how svelte I looked from the waist down. My tummy was flatter. My tush was nice and firm. No jiggles when I moved.

Then my gaze moved upward of my waist.

I was horrified at the mound of flesh that rolled over the top of my pantyhose.

I looked like a sausage that ran out of casing.

What to do?

I put the dress on and thought I might possibly get away with it, as long as I wore the jacket.

Then I sat down.

More of the sausage escaped the casing.

Really. Did I have to wear them? Here I was in Florida. Would anyone else be wearing pantyhose?

Of course, everyone else would probably have nice tan legs compared to my ghostly white ham hocks.

Besides, the shoes I planned on wearing worked better with pantyhose.

I finally made an executive decision.

I'd keep the pantyhose on but if I noticed other women with bare legs and wearing sandals, I'd strip them off so fast I'd probably create friction and start a fire.

I can remember when I rejoiced at the introduction of pantyhose back in the 60s. It was a monumental event! We no longer had to wear those constricting girdles or stupid garter belts with dangly straps hanging down our thighs with metal closures that would dig into our skin after we attached them to individual stockings. I remember sitting down and having to tug my skirts to make sure they covered those closures. What a pain.

Pantyhose was a revolutionary wonder for women. And Joe Namath.

That was back in the days when I was a nice slim hot dog.

So there I was, torturing myself the day of the wedding by wearing the pantyhose from hell in a two-hour drive and through an hour-long ceremony.

Once at the reception, I immediately went into the ladies' room and divested myself of the sausage casing.

Blood began flowing freely again throughout my body.

Color came back into my cheeks.

My eyeballs returned to their sockets.

The pinched look around my mouth began to ease.

I became giddy with glee in the bathroom stall and couldn't help but utter, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty I'm free at last!"

I heard a chuckle from the lady in the stall next to me. I noticed she was wearing sandals with no hose.

Gone was the firmness of my butt, tummy and thighs as happily I jiggled and jaggled out to join Harry and mingled with the other guests.

This happened a couple days before New Year's. I made some promises to myself. (OK. Call them resolutions.)

I resolved to never wear pantyhose again. Well. Not that pair anyway.

Hah! I bet you thought I was going to say I resolved to lose weight.

Well, actually I did. But I hate the word "diet." So, I'm just giving up some things.

I resolved to eat only one cheesesteak a week and only have my beloved Coca Cola once or twice a week, instead of daily.

I resolved to get more exercise.

I resolved that I would again attempt to wear the same pantyhose on Dec. 29 to see if my resolutions paid off.

In the meantime, I've resolved not to stand anywhere near peppers and onions in case someone mistakes me for a sausage sandwich.