I have enormous thighs.
That's not just a self-deprecating observation; it's a fact. It's also a comment made to me recently by a friend who apparently felt comfortable enough to say such a thing. At first, I balked. I most certainly do not have enormous thighs, I scoffed.
And then I looked.
And then I realized.
Sigh... I have enormous thighs.
Genetics have played a cruel trick on me. They gave me the height of a model, but the thighs of a lumberjack. Before I started running, my thighs were just plain chubby. Not the cute kind of chubby you find on a baby, but the ugly kind of chubby that prevents you from walking in corduroy pants without starting your body on fire. Five years of running has trimmed 50 pounds off my six foot frame, but it's done little to decrease the size of my thighs (although, thankfully, the chub has been replaced by muscle). A size 8 pair of jeans fits marvelously around my waist, but it clings to my thighs, forcing them to scream for mercy as they suffocate within the confines of the denim.
About a year ago, Nike Women ran a series of magazine ads celebrating the "real woman". One in particular spoke to me:
"I have thunder thighs.
And that's a compliment, because they are strong and toned and muscular.
And though they are unwelcome in the petite section, they are cheered on in marathons. Fifty years from now, I'll bounce a grandchild on my thunder thighs and then I'll go out for a run.
Just do it. Nike."
So, here's the thing:
My thighs rock. Yes, they're enormous. Yes, I can barely see my toes over them in the shower. But these thighs will carry me for miles on end, up any hill and across any terrain.
And if you make fun of them, they'll crush your head like a walnut.