If I had any reservations, at all, about looking like a complete dork in public, I’ve since gotten over it. Since it’s summer, and the temperature has flared into 90s, my pesky veins have been acting up again. My legs seem to have discovered their own manifest destiny, and seize any opportunity to expand. I have decided that, at least until the weather cools down, there is no reason not to wear compression socks at all times.
My new package arrived last week. It was a little summer present to myself. The package promises, quote, “Run until you run out of gas…Withstand the demand of being on your feet?” A confidence-inspiring claim, to be sure.
I notice the models on the package are a very fit crew, who may or may not be wearing compression socks themselves. I wager their stock photo was not found using the keywords “edema,” or “chronic venous insufficiency.”
Nevertheless, my compression socks do a reasonable job of keeping the swelling in check. And they let me complete the classic fashion statement of knee-high socks paired with shorts and sandals.
My fashion sense, never strong, has recently devolved from “I don’t care,” to “I’m looking for the wrong kind of attention.” I flatter myself by saying each carefully-chosen item fulfills a specific purpose, and is eminently practical. But when I get dressed, I have to consider my sitting disability, the weather, and any stops I might make during the day. The end result is, admittedly, discordant.
Take this outfit, for example. I got my husband to snap this pic before I went for my nightly walk. It consists of:
- Walking shoes (with insoles)
- Compression socks
- Shorts and tank top
- My fanny pack (because a purse or backpack can aggravate my sciatica)
- A water bottle (because I’m very sensitive to dehydration)
- My scarf, which serves as a coronavirus mask
- My foraging digging stick
- A bag, for anything interesting I want to bring back
- Headphones (audiobooks are my defense against boredom)
You will also note how the fanny pack is set at a jaunty angle, since I don’t like the water bottle right on my hip bone. Also, my headphone cord tends to get tangled on absolutely everything, which predictably leads to a couple of fails per evening. What cannot be captured in this photo is just how often I drop stuff, or tangle things up with other things.
I know what you’re thinking – who did your hair? Mother Nature is my favorite stylist, but the haircut is thanks to my actual mother. She may lack professional training, but she makes up for it by not putting me in a chair.
My winter is look is equally attention-getting, though more layered. I put things on in twos. I wear two pairs of socks, one on top of the other, two pairs of gloves, same, a sweatshirt under my coat, and a hat under my coat hood. On particularly cold days, I will wear two pairs of pants. It looks ridiculous, as certain family members will gleefully attest. But after three hours of walking, I am more concerned about feeling my fingers than about anyone’s aesthetic assessment.
I get plenty of attention when I’m out and about, but it’s due less to my weird ensembles than to my weird behavior.
A man and his girlfriend stop to watch me as I jump up to grab a higher branch of a serviceberry bush. After giving me the side-eye, the man ventures, “Are you sure those are edible?” His girlfriend looks mortified. I convince them both to try a shiny dark berry.
“Should I get you a chair?” asks the third waiter in a row. “You look really uncomfortable.” I insist, again, that sitting down would be far more uncomfortable, and I prefer to hover right where I am. My aunt, who is in the restaurant with me, looks on in disbelief. My mom shrugs, used to it.
I would love to get a shirt that says, “No, really. I can’t sit down.” I wonder if that would save me from explaining, or engender more questions. At the very least, I expect it would complete my look.
Will you cut my beard?