Dissecting Me

I'm spending too much time on the computer.  I know this true because I'm starting to have more fake friends (people I laugh with, cry with, pray about) from my stalking their blogs than real friends.  This is a problem.  And it makes me want to quit blogging.  Almost.   Not really, just need to get a grip.

After returning from the gym this morning I decided to retire a beloved pair of stretch pants.  It was time.  The inner leg of the pant is wearing dangerously thin.  See, I'm one of those women whose legs actually touch at the top.  I know, shocking.  And when I'm running?  Well, those sparks aren't flying because I'm going so fast.  I'm a fire hazard.  

Because of the great amount of friction, I'm pretty hard on pants, in the inner thigh area.  Jeans last 5-7 years since that have that sturdy double flat fold seam.  Slacks, a little less.  And workout pants, well a good 2 years and they are rubbish.  When training for my first (and only, lest I sound like a running snob) marathon, I realized the importance of buying quality, as in flat seamed, running pants that were slick, so as to reduce friction.  On one of my first long runs wearing run-of-the-mill running stretch shorts, I wore my legs raw.  And ended up with a hole in the shorts.  Ewww.  Gross, I know.  But true.

Believe me, when I was younger I wondered why my legs touched at the top.  I distinctly remember thinking about this at dance around the age of 8.  I looked around the room and saw all the little stick legs plie -ing about and I wondered why mine were so much bigger.  Then I looked at my dance teacher with her ginormous butt and legs to match and knew I was doomed.  Thus began my body-conscious career that lasted for decades.  

It didn't help that my brother called me thunder thighs.  Yes.  He did.  And why are they called thunder thighs?  Do they scare young children, like thunder?  Or make loud noises?  Well, if you put them in nylon pants, then yes, they do make loud noises.  Ask my mother who swooshed all over the Colorado River Basin (another story, another day).  

But back to me.  I remember when my friend, who had recently gotten engaged, announced she was going on a diet.  I protested her leg was as big as my arm.  To which she replied, "I know I'm getting fat.  The tops of my legs are touching."  I blushed and silenced my protesting, retreating into a well of reflection.

I've come to grips with the fact that my thighs are just part of my anatomy.  My uber skinny younger sister who wears a size 2 has thighs that touch.  So I must be okay.  But that certainly doesn't stop me from examining my newborn children and declaring that they did/did not receive my defective legs.  The down side to having huge thighs: no cute skinny jeans for me.  The up side:  I could squeeze a man to death if need be.