Hitch

Life can shift in one day. The weatherman squawks about showers and there is blazing sunlight. Not the precipitation you expected. The last Dodge you took a ride in broke down and then exploded next to a desert highway. You kept waiting for Steven Spielberg to yell, “Cut” and a swarm of extras to congratulate you, touch up your makeup, and the lighting to dim. But you crawled out and what everyone sees in you is true. Strength isn’t always easy. So you put your thumb out and hummed a Cross Canadian song for good luck. You were not expecting to get picked up so quickly. How do you tell someone you are new - unknown, even to yourself? The open road doesn’t frighten you. Walking next to the highway feeling gravel rolling under your boots crackling with change, you are happy. You aren’t a little girl anymore and the space you fill seems an easy middle ground. You look in the visor mirror and hardly recognize the woman covered in ash. But you kind of like it. The grease monkey look suits you. These are situations that don’t come around often but you are so used to dysfunctional truckers who try and feed you pork rinds laced with bullshit.
You are thankful for the ride. Hell, you’ve had your eye on a model like this for a long time. Didn’t know it came with all the perks. But someone will have to do a little work to keep you in the cab. Door handles fit easily into your palm. So far, the music is smooth, steady and the pace slow. No destination in mind – only seconds rolling off your spine. Just the way the stranger in you likes it.

Thighs

“There are days where I hate my thighs, this little town and the whole world too.” Not a direct quote but if Montgomery Gentry was a female group this would be their song. Some mornings I get up and turn sideways in my mirror. I like my thighs then. They seem to keep my butt perky. Straight on isn’t their best angle but we have a tumultuous relationship. Female. There is no denying that. Certain days we get along fine. I enjoy their robust physicality. Small muscles tense and they are powerful. When it rains outside and I am raining inside – I want to take a knife to them. One small incision, then a few quick tugs , and out would slide the extra stuffing. After months of anatomy and physiology, I am not turned off by the idea of flesh and blood.
I have Romantic Grecian goddess thighs. They are hording all the surplus. If a famine strikes my body they will turn into the Egyptians and enslave my limbs. I stare at other women. Amazed when there is no flaring at the top of their legs. Even at a buck ten in high school, they were there. I should be happy for that. These thighs have taken me places. I have gripped the saddle on the back of a horse riding in the Tustamena Bench. They have propelled me lap after lap in the Homer pool. Enduring skin colored spandex; they have helped to push me through long forgotten dance routines. They have climbed Wolverine Peak in one afternoon and they love a good challenge. Nothing keeps these thighs down. Not diets, not dissolution, and not bad body image. When I can’t stand myself – my thighs stand up for me. Imperfect, steady and graceful. I love them for that.