A Tale of Two Thighs
DEAN DROBOT / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM
I have to whisper.
My thighs are onto me.
For years we have had an amicable-enough agreement: I will continue feeding them raw cookie dough, and they will do their best not to make a ruckus when we walk down the street. But the jig is up. They've noticed that I've been trying to break up their happy union.
The decision to declare war on my thighs happened on an unsuspecting Tuesday morning at the gym. I was engaged in my normal routine of huffing and puffing along on the treadmill, some iTunes jams in my ear, with a little spring in my step, when I noticed her. Two treadmills down. A vision of fitness, running at breakneck speed in a cute Lululemon outfit. Her hair was perfectly out of place, and she was glowing rather than sweating. It was then I caught a glance of myself in a side mirror, and noticed I had on mismatched socks and grape jelly on my sleeve. Ms. Skinny Minny down the way looked like she'd just jogged out of the pages of Today's Athlete, and I looked like someone who could benefit from long-term quarantine care.
All of that I could live with, or at least shrug off. But then I noticed her legs. Both of them.
From that moment on, I was a woman on a mission.
In one fell swoop, I went from wanting to lose a few pounds to hating my stuck-together thighs, calves, and life. No longer was I fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14); instead, I was disappointed in my divine design. If only I had Ms. Skinny Minny's legs! I would then have the life, look, and love I was supposed to have. Despite never having had a conversation with this woman, regardless of not knowing her name, her favorite movie, or how she takes her coffee, I wanted to be her. If envy makes the bones rot (Proverbs 14:30), I was surely decomposing.
I started seeing this woman everywhere. And wouldn't you know? Everywhere she went, she brought her legs with her. At the supermarket, she showed them off in jeans that actually slimmed her (the nerve!). At the library, she breezed in and breezed out on stylish heels (the bravado!). In the park she crossed her legs and let her foot dangle like a ballerina (grr!). In a few short weeks, I went from having never noticed this woman to knowing that her legs—and therefore, her life—outshined mine in every way.
Regardless of my college education, my life experience, my gifts, my talents, and my knowledge that I am a child of God; I would sell my soul, raffle off my children, and trade in my car to be thin. Sad? Yes. Pathetic? Maybe. But I'm not alone. The diet industry is not a little known secret a handful of people have heard of in passing. It is a multi-billion dollar behemoth wreaking havoc on our lives. It has somehow convinced otherwise sane, fabulous women that true happiness can only be measured by calorie intake. Sadly, being a consumer of products and promises to make me look better, I have become my own worst enemy.
