Mami, Mami
(Mommy, Mommy)
New York. Now.The legs, they say, are always the last to go.
Thank my lucky genes, then, that I still have great legs at my age. My mother, at seventy, has long, slim, endless legs that once scandalized Franco’s Spain when she visited in the late Sixties, stepping off the plane in a sleeveless top with a mini-falda, movie star shades, and a pixie haircut. Only the cigarette dangling from her lips failed to shock her Spanish relatives; smoking was perhaps one of the few licit pleasures under the rule of El Caudillo.
But that, she says, was when she was in her prime. Nowadays, she rarely exposes her legs, preferring leggings or skirts and dresses that fall past the knee, worn with flats or low-heeled shoes. Which was why it perplexes—and no doubt irritates—her
