I have a complicated relationship with my legs …

As a kid, they were forever mosquito bitten with skinned knees in the summer and trapped under scratchy tights in the winter. They were utility-only, forgettable, if not a little marred by rural life.

As a teen they were strong and lean and thick from sports, barely concealed by shorty-short running shorts, shaved slick from ankle to bush.

In my twenties they changed again: softer, thicker still, pale and comely like the broad thighs and diminutive ankles of rich women in Renaissance paintings.

My thirties have wrought my once sculptural, athletic pins into gentle loaves of translucent, opalescent flesh that dimples sweetly, downed with soft hair.

I don’t dislike them, per se, but they are not a redeeming feature, I don’t highlight them, but I don’t hide them either. They are, as many legs are, useful, frustrating, beautiful in a utilitarian way, and unique. They are mine, and like them or lump them, they do the job, and for that I am thankful.

What will my forties bring for these sweet stumpy legs? Varicose veins? New scars? New stories? New adventures? Time will tell …

 

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