Once upon a time, I smoked. Briefly, I owned a Dunhill lighter. It was well tooled. It looked handsome. It felt like something real in pocket and substantial in hand. It lit. Without fail. And then one day, it vanished. Drink is a terrible thing.
I mention this only because I am thinking now of how long it took me to forget my Dunhill lighter. Everything after felt tinny, and then, plastic. And perhaps, as evidenced by this reverie, I have not yet fully recovered from the loss. When a luxurious experience combines with a well developed sense of entitlement, the result is a thing commonly known as a comfort threshold. A new standard that makes all prior experience a pale Polaroid propped up beside an old master.
Luxury corrupts like nothing else. Power, even absolute power, is Cinderella’s ugly sister by comparison. Luxury. Now there is a drug.
With that said, dear leggy friend, I must tell you that this week I misguidedly purchased and just moments ago pulled on my very first pair of Wolford tights.
The Wolford Luxe 9 is an ultra sheer, (yes, the 9 is 9 Denier) super transparent, dress legging. They are possessed of a combination of gossamer lightness and tightness of yarn that cannot be either fully anticipated or easily described with words, mere words. The subtle reinforcement through the panty provides more visual appeal than support, but don’t worry, nobody will be looking at your waistline. The flat seamed waistband vanishes both from a look and feel perspective, and stays in place without need for attention.
They move on your legs in way that you have not felt before. They achieve a smooth glide over and around flexed, bending and striding legs. They hold shape without evidence of effort. They glimmer not. They do not need to. They make you believe with fierce conviction, instantly, that the superb sensations they confer are precisely what you deserve, need and crave for all of your remaining upright earthly moments.
Lastly, they achieve an effect that contradicts logic, and frankly, has me flummoxed. They are invisible, and yet they vastly improve the appearance of the human cargo borne within. What dangerous alchemy has been harnessed bestride the Danube? Who are these Austrian sorcerers? And what magic have they wrung from an otherwise dull periodic table of elements?
These, to me, are not pantyhose. They are a Faustian bargain with a nice light cotton gusset thrown in. They demand an instant upgrade to every other element in your life from purse to pumps. Never, and I mean never, have I felt such an overwhelming urge to shave my legs. Loyal readers of this column (Hi Mom!) will know that I have not yet crossed this threshold. I know now that this is inevitable. And necessary. And dignified. It must be done. My Wolford’s deserve nothing less.
It is too late for me dear reader. I am here to save you. Please, for pity’s sake, buy not the Wolford. For if you do, we will meet, destitute and relying on the kindness of strangers for simpler and now to me, entirely trivial comforts like food and shelter, in our declining years.
Ah yes, and now the ranking exercise. I will confess to having paid full retail of $30.00 in a Neiman Marcus that had everything else under the sun on sale. My scientifically and entirely rational scoring system simply cannot accommodate the magnificence of these superb strumpfhose. Their high ticket price unfairly fetters them into 3rd place out of 6 rated contenders. Please accept my abject apologies for my inability to create a mathematical model that pays adequate tribute to these magnificent pantyhose.