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Blame The Thighs…

Writing suffers in the time of Coronavirus. Unlike Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Love In The Time Of Cholera, I don’t become more determined, undeterred by obstacle. I blame my thighs.

Thigh growth and spread engulfs all in its path leaving little couch room for even Skittish Tabby. He looks at them, eyebrow raised, “What the hell are those? Get them out of my spot.”

He would not be wrong in his wide-eyed wonder. Their mass is impressive. In the way that giant ball of yarn in Kansas elicits gawkers even though it’s just a giant ball of twine. Soon, tourists en route to Sedona or the Grand Canyon will pull over in North Scottsdale to catch a glimpse of the lady with the elephant thighs.

Of course it’s Coronavirus’ fault. Forcing a girl to stay at home, reading, Netflixing and chair hopping, something has to fill the void. Of course it’s food. And this body metabolizes food into thigh matter faster than you can say, “What donut?”

In my house thighs expand slowly, methodically, until their grasp is undeniable. Their presence is everywhere–spreading, oozing like slime, refusing to conform to smooth dress lines or God forbid, pants. Dress choices now include pleats. Pfft.

Surprised? Nah. Thigh girth is this body’s fat favorite. In high school, a fellow cheerleader made note of thigh circumference resulting in starvation and running. Mine, not hers. I have to fan myself at the thought. Not just of some snarky bitch making me run but that I cared. My refusal to run as a grown woman who wears dresses and heels results in a game of sit and watch them grow like chia pets. Overnight.

Don’t be fooled for a second. They’re not strong and muscular. They are jiggly, glowing white and refuse to move in unison; each struggling for independence, slamming into each other creating a slick of sweat. Such a lady, right?

It’s all part of the circle of lazy. Make me stay home. Is there a little sumpin’ sumpin’ sweet to start the day? What’s for lunch? Are we, the cat and I, having cocktails with dinner? I spy with my little eye…Cheese! No eating after 7 p.m., a rule followed like a convert since my twenties, has left the building.

“Ooh, is that chocolate? Yes, I’ll have another chicken leg.” Sweet needs salty–are you living under a rock? Frozen margs from The Dale’s fave Mexican, to go, aren’t helpful. Order up and they bring frozen concoctions in a cute little bottle for home use. Margaritas have been known to pack on thigh power, and not the good kind that comes from diet, exercise, maybe swimming or squats. I think I just shuddered a little.

Kinda built myself into a corner. Packed on the pounds and now it’s too hot to exercise here on the surface of the sun. At least for us super lazy chicks. The pool seems the only solution. Exercise without feeling it. I can run without sweat touching my brow and as long as I stay waist high, no one can see the thighs. Where’s my towel? Oh there it is, next to the margarita.

2 thoughts on “Blame The Thighs…”

  1. OMG sister – you are hilarious! Looking forward to lunch/wine/coffee/whining when we can find a restaurant that can accommodate our composite thighs!



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