From the moment I was born, my thighs have always been large. I remember the very moment I realized that my thighs were larger than normal. I was in the seventh grade, sitting on a bus on a middle school field trip to Washington D.C., and as I glanced out the window to get a better view of the Washington Monument, I happened to notice the eighth grade girl sitting across the aisle. Her thighs were much smaller than mine; in fact, they were probably half the size of mine. I glanced back and forth between her thighs and mine for a while, noticing for the first time ever that sitting on my thighs made them look even larger. I have big thighs!, I remember thinking. How did I not notice this before now? There I sat as a thirteen year old girl experiencing my first ever case of body envy.
From that moment, I developed a love-hate relationship with my thighs. Well, mostly hate. The only time I loved them was when I pinned someone down in a judo hold and I wrapped my thighs around my opponent’s body until time was called and I won the match. I loved my thunder thighs during those few occasions. People used to compliment me on my skill, but I knew that it wasn’t skill but rather my secret weapon: my thighs.
Ok, well there was a second time that I loved my thighs. When I decided to start ballet classes in the eight grade, I realized just how strong my legs were. During a warm-up activity, the teacher pushed her legs against mine and my goal was to push her over. I succeeded very easily and she stood up, stunned, and immediately wanted to put me in a pair of toe shoes because apparently my legs were strong enough to handle the weight of my body while standing on my toes. Too bad I quit ballet after that one year. Maybe I could have made it as a ballerina.
For the most part, though, I’ve had an unhealthy relationship with my thighs. Since that fateful day on the DC bus twenty three years ago, I have spent almost every day since trying to make my thighs smaller. I wasted birthday wishes trying to wish them away. That didn’t work. I prayed for God to make them smaller. That really didn’t work; He reminded me that He made me in his own liking. (Big thighs, God? Really??) Then I tried to exercise and diet them away. 100 squats you say? Ok, I’ll do it. With each new exercise routine, my thighs would become smaller, but they would never become small.
And then there’s the cellulite. Yes, I have cellulite. Stop smirking because you probably have it, too. In fact, according to self.com, 93% of women have cellulite. The truth about cellulite is that it’s not a sign of you being overweight or out of shape. Doctors aren’t exactly sure what causes cellulite, and some think that it is genetic. My cellulite has become less visible with exercise and diet, but it hasn’t disappeared. I have tried all of the cellulite remedies on every magazine cover. Have you ever tried the apple cider remedy or rolling a rolling pin over your cellulite? Don’t even bother. They don’t work. The truth is, if you’re a woman, you are most likely going to develop cellulite at some point. My friends, the odds are not in your favor of escaping it. I spent too many years of my life covering my thighs in Bermuda shorts and swim suit cover ups because I was ashamed of my legs. I sat on beaches worrying if the cute guy on the beach chair behind me noticed my legs. I mean, how could he not? I spent too many evenings turning off the light before sex because I didn’t want my partner to notice my thighs. I spent too many summer days sweating beneath jean capris because I was too embarrassed to put on a pair of shorts.
Ladies. I’m over it. I’m over criticizing my thighs and shaming myself. I’m over missing out on truly embracing the present by worrying so much about something inconsequential that I can’t change. I’m over classifying my thighs in terms of size and using adjectives like “big” or “large” to describe them. I’m over the words “chub rub.” Your thighs are rubbing together. But let’s leave the “chub” out of it. I’m over trying on an outfit and twirling around in the mirror to make sure my thighs look “ok.” I’m even over the damn cellulite.
My thighs are strong just like me. They kicked their way through the most rigorous week-long Water Safety Instructor course on Lake George. They have won gold medals in judo. They’ve climbed mountains and they’ve walked several ten mile treks with my friends and me. They’ve jumped, danced, and lifted others during the four years I spent cheering on the blue and white on the high school varsity cheerleading team. They still remember the day they ran their first mile, and how now, one mile seems easy to them. They beg me to celebrate their strength and appreciate their scars. They will no longer be kept a secret; they will courageously face the world with confidence and pride.
To the chub rubbers and thunder thighs: First of all, get rid of these disgraceful terms. Don’t wake up one day and realize that you’ve wasted too many summers sweating under capris and not enjoying the pool. Put on your bathing suit and jump in that water. Feel the coolness on your thighs, and don’t you dare look down at your legs. Keep your chin up and swim forward with courage and confidence. And…have fun!
May this be your best summer yet!
-C
The C-Word 