A love letter to my thighs.

Several years ago I acquired a book entitled Three Black Skirts. The premise was that one's wardrobe (and presumably, life) could be simplified through this "all you need to survive" book. Budgets could be followed. Clutter could be eliminated. A broken heart could be healed.

While I don't remember much else about the contents of the book (I suppose I could go look since it's still on my shelf), I do remember something about writing a love letter to the body part you dislike the most. If I recall, the author's was to her "bottom." I guess embracing one's "uglies" is liberating. To me that's way more interesting than rearranging a closet to attain spiritual clarity. Okay. Fine. In an effort to boost my self-esteem (and possibly improve my cosmic destiny) here I go: A love letter to my thighs.

Dear Thighs,

I don't know how to start. What should I say to my thighs? I mean, really? Maybe I should go consult the book to see how to approach this... Do men worry about these things? Somehow I don't think so. I digress. Let me get the book.

I know in the past we've had issues, but I'm trying to come to terms with you. To be blunt, I always wanted you to be something other than what you are-- a pudgy expanse of swollen flesh and the reminder (and evidence) of my donut infatuation. I'll admit I'm weak. I wanted you to be thin, vein-less, and toned. I wanted perfection.

It's taken a long time to reach the realization that I've been wrong. I should love you as you are because true love means accepting you, weird veiny things and all. You're strong, you're dependable, you're well-matched. And through the insight gained through many miles of running, you're unlikely to change. I now appreciate how you carry me through each day, even if you do that weird jiggle thing.

Does it really matter that because of you I can't fit into my "skinny" pants? Can't wear shorts above the knee or cute little skirts (black or otherwise)? I suppose not.

Actually, that's not a strong enough denouncement of my vanity given the assignment. Let me try again.

I say "no."

I'm done worrying about how you appear to others. If I love you, what others think won't matter. I will dress you in pants that flatter, skirts that accent, and shorts (well, maybe I'll just forget about the shorts for now).

Next time we're out on the trail and I'm agonizing over your wobble, I'll remind myself that you're strong enough to carry me wherever I want to go. (And then I'll proceed to fixate on a different body part I'd like to change, like maybe my butt.)

With love,
C.


That's all the energy I can muster for now. I may need to revise at a later time. I'm waiting for some sort of spiritual epiphany from the release of the negative body image feelings. Maybe I wasn't sincere enough.

This makes writing about imaginary running partners seem normal.