Swish swish swish. What is that noise? Swish swish swish swish, WHAT is that??? Oh, wait a sec, I know. It’s my thighs. Awwwesome. Yup, my thighs make a noise when I walk. And if you don’t know WTF I’m talking about, please stop reading this now because you must be one of those women whose thighs have never touched before.
Like once I had this cute pair of black linen pants that I wore almost every day after I was preggers and I LOVED them (translation: they were the only pants that fit without squeezing my gallbladder up into my esophagus). And then one day I took them out of my closet and put them on and I must have bent over for some reason and that’s when I saw it. Nooooooooo. Two gaping holes, one on each thigh, up by the crotch. Eww, isn’t crotch like the worst word on earth? Moist crotch. There, I just made it worse. But I digress.
Anyways, yup, two chub rub holes where my thighs swish swish swish together when I walk. I tried not to focus on the fact that I had been wearing these pants for months and had no idea when the holes began and who saw them.
I know, I know, we’re supposed to be all kumbaya with our bodies and comfortable with who we are and blah blah blah. Like that woman who gave birth to twins and then posted a selfie in a bikini and everyone was like isn’t she awesome for being so comfortable with her floppy belly. Totally awesome. That is not sarcastic. I seriously admire her. Only that’s kind of different because she carried the miracle of life in her belly and that’s why it’s a little saggier. You know why my thighs look like this? Hershey’s syrup, French fries, and shitty DNA.
Do I walk around all mopey and down on myself and thinking I’m pathetic? No. But my nose would be longer than Pinocchio’s if I said I was totally happy with my thighs. They make noise. They make holes in my pants. They make me red down there when they chafe each other. They make it hard to find a single pair of jeans that fit. And they make me hot as shit because I refuse to wear shorts because when I do my thighs spread out like pancake mix on a griddle when I sit down.
And please don’t pity me and act like I’m sad because I don’t love myself. Am I happy when I look in the mirror? Absolutely. Am I happy when I look in the mirror with no pants on and my feet together to see if I can see even a sliver of light between my legs? Absolutely not.
And if you’re one of those people who was supposed to stop reading this in the first paragraph but didn’t, I’m sorry if I seem like a stalker when I see you. I am longingly staring at your thighs contemplating ways I can steal them and then wear miniskirts every single day even if I travel to Antarctica.
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Speaking of thighs spreading out, you should see mine when I sit on the toilet. And speaking of toilets, here’s something awesome to read while you’re sitting on one. I Heart My Little A-Holes and I Want My Epidural Back!!