Oh (heavy thigh), Woe is Me?

No, I have not developed a blog-lisp.  This post is about the dreaded thigh and other closely connected parts about which women lament.

I was at the gym (shocker, I know) changing after a grueling great 2 1/2 hour workout.  Since I was in the women's locker room, there were other women changing at the same time.  One of which was standing practically in my face (way on the other side of the locker room), bent over, changing her pants and the like.  Of course, I looked.  Her ass was perfect.  It was smooth, round, muscled.  Dammit.  It just pissed me off and ruined my day. 

Don't judge.  And don't pretend you don't look or wouldn't look, too. It's like a knee-jerk reaction.  Something beautiful or ghastly is in your field of vision and you're going to look and assess (HA!  Get it?  ASSess?  Sorry.  Moving on...).  This knee-jerk reaction is why I don't like to change in the locker room.  The sneak-a-peak instinct cannot be denied.  And I know that someone will or has looked at me... but with a different reaction, "Oh dear GOD!  What the hell happened there???  Is that bubble wrap or is that her ass and thighs?"

Of course, it's really not that bad.  Bubble wrap?  No.  Is it?  No.  Don't tell me.

But women tend to think it really is that bad.  Even if they are the owner of the perfect butt that ruined my day, they think their condition is much worse than it really is. What I can't get my head around is why?  Why do we see ourselves in a circus mirror? 

I workout every day, sometimes 2-3 hours/day.  I coat my legs and cheeks in so much over-priced cellulite-reducing cream, it's a wonder I don't slide right off my chair when I sit down.  I'm not too proud to buy those goofy leg-shaping tennis shoes or the uber-tight "massaging" leggings that claim to squeeze the cellulite into submission.  Hell, if I could get the green-light on the expense, I'd go under for liposuction.  But apparently paying the mortgage and putting food on the table is, like, 'priority' or something lame like that (whatEVER).

So I walk around, with my eyes averted just a little bit, sighing, "Woe is me.  Why can't I win this battle?"

But the answer is surprisingly in our faces, isn't it?  We have won the battle.  We're alive and we're loved.  Bubble wrap butt and all.  Loved and alive. 

So no more 'heavy thighing'.  Gimme the smack-down if you hear (or read) me pissing and moaning about my shape.  And I will do the same for you.  Change what you can and just embrace the rest.  Besides, bubble wrap is protective.  Right?


-B (Sting)