Fishnets: Not just for sluts?

I’m not sure if I’m either living in a different world or if today is opposite day but I just walked down the hall to get a soda and on my way back, passed an older looking gentleman from the Navy, in uniform, that smiled and said hello when he passed.

Just after I passed him, having said hello and how are you back, I kept walking until I heard him stop and say,

“Excuse me. I just have to say something.” I stopped, and quickly wondered what was coming next.

“Sure.” I offered, not sure I wanted to hear what unsolicited advice or commentary was about to come next.

“Can I just tell you how nice it is to see a lady walk around without holes in her stockings?”

I stared at him blankly, wondering if he was fucking with me.

“Girls these days walk around with holes in their nylons. Holes everywhere. Big holes.”
He stuck his finger in his mouth like he was going to shove it down his throat and made a gagging noise. He was in his 60s I’d guess, though I’ve never been a whiz on guessing ages, and I wondered if he knew that was not the universal sign for gross anymore.

I also wondered if I should tell him I was wearing tights, not nylons, because I hate nylons and their judgy and restrictive elastic waist unforgiving bullshit bands and their shine and while I am still on good terms with tights when the weather calls for it, nylons and I are not friends nor will we ever be friends. Ever.

“Oh, you mean really young girls. Like high school. I think they think that’s fashion,” I offered. Ripped nylons to me has nothing meant more than clumsy execution, though I know to guys it means rough and rapey Eastern European porno sex.

Seriously. Guys see ripped nylons, or maybe fishnets, and instantly think they’re going to screw some girl named Svetlana who wears fur and red lipstick and resides in Belgrade. I swear to God, men are too predictable sometimes.

I laughed about the irony of the situation I was in and said, “I think those girls don’t realize that as we get older,” I could hear myself relating to a middle aged man which means I am getting old and judgy, “we relate ripped nylons to prostitutes, not fashion.”

Jesus, did I really just have to refer to whores in a one minute conversation that I think was meant only to compliment me?

“You are right. In any case, it’s nice to see someone dressed appropriately.” And with that, he walked off.

I waited until he rounded the corner to look down at myself, just in case the tights I pulled on this morning had magically changed somewhere between my desk and the soda machine down the hall.

No one or two holes. Like a hundred of them.

Nope. Didn’t change.

God. I am so confused.