I was certainly wearing pantyhose. It was just that they were wet, and this is what caused the confusion. To the young Hasid passing the yard where I sat, the damp Lycra, transparent in the glinting sun, looked like my nude legs sprawled over the edge of the pop-up pool, bare as a careless whore.
It was a momentary mishap, a misunderstanding, cleared up in less than a day. After all, like every Hasidic woman in the ultra-Orthodox world, I had been wearing pantyhose since I was 6 years old, the age we stop wearing socks. How else would we be modest? How else to ensure that no one saw our legs when we ran, jogged, skipped or walked?
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