Hosed

I have had an unfortunate incident with spray-on nylons.

Perhaps I should have stopped at the idea of hose in a bottle. But spring was around the corner and sometimes–when I’m very tired and feeling unattractive–I believe infomercials. It’s not something I’m proud of. Anyway, I paid $19.95 for nude-colored spray that would, at best, make me look like a silky smooth leg model, and, at worst, stop the reflection of my neon legs from interfering with air traffic. I couldn’t lose! I stashed it in the bathroom and waited for a 72-degree day, because who has time for a trial run.

This week, it happened. Warm sun, birds singing and women everywhere breaking out of the black for colorful skirts. At my 6 a.m. wake-up call (at which time, it should be noted, I can barely put pants on my legs) I grabbed my Aqua Net for Limbs and headed for the shower.

I fold myself in half in our shower that was built for 9-foot-tall stick bugs, shake the can “vigorously,” and spray. The initial blast shocked me such that I bolted upright, smacking my skull on the cold water knob. When I regained consciousness, I ignored the orange blotch on my thigh and tried again. After carefully spraying six inches from my legs in a steady, vertical pattern, then smoothing with my fingers PER INSTRUCTIONS, my legs certainly were no longer pasty. No, sir. My legs looked exactly how they would if I’d let Sally finger paint them with Burnt Sienna.

Awesome.

I smooth more. And more. It’s no use. I have a tragic skin disorder now. One foot looks like a transplant from someone who lived on carrot juice; a calf looks like CSI just dusted for fingerprints. I will be publicly shunned.

But it’s late and I’ve got to get three people out of the house, so there’s no time to call the company and threaten to burn down their headquarters. I get out of the dry shower and turn around to close the door, only to see the entire stall covered in a perfect layer of silky smooth horrifyingly rust-colored nude spray-on stockings. Which does not come off under spray of water.

Several choice phrases later, I make a mental note to scrub the tile. But as often happens, I forget to tell my husband about the minor snafu, and shortly after, Mr. Embee screams out in horror because he’s fairly certain someone has bled out in our shower.

Three days later, I’ve spent two precious morning showers scrubbing this awful stuff off the floor of the shower (once with a brillo pad) with little improvement. It did, however, come off my legs as promised, with soap and water. I glow in the dark once again. The Mr., to his credit, has not complained about my legs or the shower’s death stain.

I actually would try the product again to try and improve my technique, but even if I achieve perfect legs, I couldn’t show them off because I’d be home scrubbing the bathroom. My only viable option is to venture, nude, into the yard at night. And I think the home owner’s association would frown on that. So screw it. Put on your sunglasses, hide anyone with epilepsy. Casper is putting on a skirt.