Well, we've talked about legs, but we didn't address thighs. Thighs are one of those touchy subjects. If you touch mine, they jiggle. Seriously, though, thighs are the bain of a woman's existence. It doesn't matter how skinny or fat one is, thighs wiggle and wobble, jiggle and joggle.
Even my niece, who is as tiny as an elf, complains about her thighs and cellulite. I've often wondered if cellulite received its name because fat is trapped in cells. Something to think about.
I have vacillated between thinking of my thighs as cottage cheese or as unbaked bread dough. And sometimes they are both at the same time. Who would have thought? It is probably no coincidence that both of these have to do with food and my love affair with food has greatly contributed to the state of my thighs.
The Broadway play "Menopause the Musical" features the song, "My Thighs." Sung to the tune of "My Guy," the song laments women's feelings about their thighs. When I wasn't laughing through it, I was close to crying, because those sentiments so closely resemble my own.
And isn't that the thing about menopause? We laugh and cry, often over the same thing. Once again, thank heavens for Prozac!
Moving upward, have you read the poem "Homage to My Hips" by Lucille Clifton? I have a theory about that poem. Only people with real hips can read aloud that poem well. What do you think?
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