Fit and Hungry

Legs,

First of all, I love you. I know, every time that I say I love you, its followed by crossfit front squats, an endurance spin class, or an inhumane number of burpees. This time its different, though, so listen, okay? Like I said, I love you. I love you because you’ve been there for me when it mattered the most: You’ve helped me walk away from bad relationships, you’ve helped me run a marathon, you’ve helped me stand up for what I believe in, but, more importantly, you’ve helped me hover over nasty gas station toilets. You’ve even held me up over toilets in posh nightclubs where I should have been honored to sit. My hovering skills got so good that one time I texted a friend (while in hover mode) in the middle of the longest pee of my life. I did this and still remained on target. You were steady as a rock. That’s what you’ve done for me, you see. And nothing can take that away from us. But it wasn’t always this way. I used to resent you.

In high school, you looked different. No one said good things about you. They called you a macronutrient. A protein. “Chicken legs,” to be exact. They were so cruel. Who would call you Chicken Legs? A boy, of course. “Hey man, see that light-skinned black girl who looks self-conscious? Let’s say something mean to her.” And they did. The worst part – I still haven’t forgiven myself for this – is that I believed them. Instead of believing in you and your potential, I hid you from the world. Making jeans fit any occasion became my modus operandi. If I was dressing up, I’d wear a crisp button-down tucked into midnight blue Girbaud jeans and loafers. If I were feigning insouciance, I’d wear strategically torn jeans with a shirt that hugged my A cup bra so tight you could see the outline of the tissue I’d stuffed in there.

So, where were we? Oh, yeah, the if-you-sit-on-that-toilet-your-butt-will-grow-protuberances part.

Yes, you have been a bridge over troubled waters. Literally. But what I love most is that you suffer daily and give me little lip. As a matter of fact, the back-talking has become so rare that I wonder if you care at all. I mean, we’re supposed to hurt the ones we love, right? Some lactic acid buildup, a labored uphill walk, or a vastus lateralis text message sent via a leg cramp would be nice. Something! Cause, if we’re keeping it real, you would be nothing without me. You didn’t get strong by divine intervention. Yes, some quads got it like that but you ain’t one of them, chicken legs! Do you know the trouble I went through to ensure no one ever called you that again? A lot. I have physical evidence to prove it. Exhibit A: The bunion on my left foot from years of track workouts. Exhibit B: The Osgood-Schlatter disease from adolescent softball and cheerleading tryouts. I’m gonna stop there because I’m being mean and you don’t deserve that. I’m sorry.

Despite the bunion and the bump and your resistance to moisturizing agents, I think you are wonderful. Beautiful, Strong, and Buttery. Even when I cross one of you over the other and the bottom one threatens to curl like spoiled milk, I still love you. I take the good with the bad. I take that neat line that separates my quad from my hamstring along with the scar on my knee from the day I crashed my bike into a wall. I take it all. Because you mean that much to me. And on the day when some thug tries to steal my wallet and the three dollars in it, I know you’ll be there to kick him in the nuts and run. And while you are running faster than he thought you would, I will smile and scream the lyrics to Michael Jacksons, “Bad” at the top of my lungs.

Hugs, kisses, and lots of shea butter!
Angel