In the 80s, and perhaps for decades before, pantyhose were sold at the local Woolsworth packed in a plastic egg. Just like those brightly colored plastic easter eggs that parents buy and fill with candy because actual dyed hard-boiled eggs that have been sitting in the yard for a few hours are gross to eat.  These were a thinner plastic, color-coded denoting the color of the pantyhose; in all a marketing ploy because the company thought they were being charming with the name L’Eggs. Cracking open an egg, real or plastic, is a satisfying sensation of breaking something fragile. Out would begin to expand the silky, mostly translucent material, meant to hide any flaws on your legs while adding a certain unnatural sheen. And if you managed to wear them once without any tears or holes, you could roll them back up tight; but never could they fit back into that plastic egg. At the store it seemed perfectly reasonable that your L’Eggs were so neatly laid out in their display. But once opened, once freed, the silkiness would not be folded, wrapped, or rolled back into that cage. Now just imagine at the center, a little stash of glitter, that sprayed once the material was released – that is how I feel. I feel like now that I have set my mind to the mode of freedom, I can’t condense it back down to it’s original container. It almost fits, but then some is sticking out an edge, it is misshapen, bulging – and in absolutely no way can that glitter be collected. I try to fold myself back into my routines, distract myself with the same trivialities, follow the rules that once made so much sense – simply enough, I can’t be contained.