She challenged us to post about how we loved our bodies.
It reminded me of something I wrote several years ago.
*************************************
These legs.
You’ve got legs like a piano bench, he said. What does that even mean? I was 8, or 10. or maybe 12.
I internalized that he meant that my legs were like tree trunks. But tree trunks don’t look like a
piano bench. Piano bench legs are delicate. My legs are not. Perhaps he meant that I have no
ankles, which is a fair assessment.
These legs. These legs have been a lifelong struggle.
Always pushing me into the next sized clothing, even if that size fits no where else. These legs
make me a mudder, not a sprinter. All the romance heroines have grey eyes and delicate
ankles. Clearly, those books are not written about women like me.
These legs.
You have old lady veins in your legs! She said. And she was right. I was 17. How many
procedures have I had, do I have before I give up, and just deal with these old lady veins...How
many years of refusing to wear shorts before I say, “fuck it, these are my legs and I’m simply not
going to care. I’m going to own them.”
Because here’s the thing:
These legs ran 4 miles today.
These legs are strong.
These legs are solid and they keep me practically on the ground, even when my aspirations and
my obsessions would have me losing sight.
These legs are not delicate and lovely; but neither am I. I am loud and bold and colorful and
opinionated and strong. These legs are, too. They have never let me down.
Legs like a piano bench? Legs like tree trunks? Old lady legs? Yes. Legs that run mile after mile
and are strong enough to walk down the stairs every morning with 60 lbs of 9 year old in my arms; these legs climb ladders and roof houses and ride bikes and run races and play soccer with the kids. These legs keep me on my feet. They are strong, not delicate. They are in your face, not acquiescing. They are powerful and they are reliable.
They are.
