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.