My thighs haven’t seen the sun in years. Slap some fangs and a brooding personality on them and you’ve got a recipe for vampire – seriously, they’re that close to the shade of Elmer’s paste (and almost as lumpy).
Until recently. A few weeks ago, I wore a pair of workout shorts to a Zumba class. Bad idea – even after losing so much weight, as I watched myself dancing in the full-length mirrors I couldn’t help but compare my thighs to bouncing balloons stuffed to capacity with packing peanuts.
So, that was a giant “no” for wearing shorts in public. Last weekend, I decided to try again and set off to find a pair of denim shorts at a nearby open-air mall. I scoured every store possible, and all I was greeted with was a profusion of corduroy pants and wool sweaters. I love fall fashion as much as the next person, but it was still 90 degrees the day I went shopping – show a little love for a cool body temperature, c’mon.
Finally, I found one pair in the section of JC Penney reserved for “ladies of a certain age.” Oh well, shorts are shorts.
And it wasn’t horrible. I didn’t look great. I probably didn’t even look good, but I sure felt good about myself.
I strutted my packing-peanut balloons around Wisconsin proudly.