I Hate My Thighs!!!
By Jessica McBride
As told to Sharon Grehan-Howes
I guess I always had a love hate relationship with my thighs. Even as a girl I knew I needed them but I didn't know why there had to be so much of them.
For the most part through my twenties I could ignore them except when I was sweaty and sat on vinyl.
The first time I noticed a major change was when I wore silk pants for the first time at an office Christmas party. I was strolling to the bar and detected a soft whisper as my thighs rubbed together rubbed together.
It wasn't obvious unless you told everyone to shut up and listen so I stopped doing that. I didn't pay too much attention until a few days later when I was walking to the bus.
I was wearing jeans and the swish, swish sound became more and more evident until I realized my thighs were trying to communicate with me.
It was mostly small talk at first: the weather, the state of the transit system, but as days passed and I changed pants the voice became more insistent.
Little suggestions like "why don't you run for the bus" changed to "why don't you run in front of the bus".
I knew I was in trouble when a particularly malevolent pair of capri pants encouraged me to audition for Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk.
I sought help but could not hear the therapist over the sarcastic murmurings of my linen trousers.
I tried wearing skirts and dresses but that didn't work because then the pantyhose would make fun of my hair.
One night I couldn't sleep because my pajamas wanted to watch Late Nite. Fed-up and depressed I threw on some clothes and went for a walk.
The night was cold so I nipped into my neighbourhood McDonalds for coffee and a muffin. As I walked back to the table my trousers started nagging me about my caffeine intake and my calcium deficiency. I was tired and felt I could take no more.
My thighs got louder and louder until my hands started to shake. I raised the cup with unsteady hands to my lips and the steaming contents poured into my lap.
It was a turning point.
The pain was searing. I have blurred remembrances of the anguished screams of my thighs and images of the wait staff anxiously hovering and pointing out the "Caution: Contents Hot" warning on the cup.
Then silence. Pain--a lot of pain. But silence. Complete silence. I was free.
Once again I was able to walk the streets without being told to trip an old woman or steal newspapers.
I have heard the odd murmur since then especially when corduroy is involved but the minute I venture near those glorious arches the murmurs turn to silence. Now if only my feet would stop humming Wipe Out off key.
By Sharon Grehan-Howes
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