Thighs the Size of Jupiter

 (I wrote this a couple of months ago, I thought I would share)

My thunderous thighs were always a tough reality to cope with. Never quite fitting into a pair of jeans. Always have to buy a size bigger in jeans in order to make room for them. Having to deal with jeans, tight in my thigh region, but slipping off my flat butt and narrower waist.  Having to answer that annoying question.

“What size jeans do you wear?”

“Well, you see, it’s complicated.”

“Its just one number”

“Well, that’s the complicated part. My thighs are a size 8, but my waist is a size 6.”

And I would curse those defenseless jeans. Poor things. It was undeserved and unwelcome. I know that looking back, but at the time it made so much sense to me.

“I hate jeans!”

What I really should have been cursing were the thighs themselves. This would have been more deserved and made much more sense, but they couldn’t help it, being the way they were. In that sense, they were just as defenseless as the jeans.

Nobody out there could possibly understand my trials and tribulations, my denim woes.

“They look fine!”

“It is not about how they look! It is about how they feel.”

And they were never comfortable. It was the most painful form of rejection. Not even a pair of jeans felt comfortable on me. Possibly the most handy, sturdy article of clothing, definitely the most worn, and it rejected my body.  

Oh the breakdowns I would have over this problem. I would go into stores and explain my problem.  They would tell me to try this and that, but it was hopeless. I would leave the store disheartened, and the sales’ ladies would apologize sympathetically.  They didn’t understand.

No one understood because their bodies were beautifully proportional. How I longed for those proportional bodies. (Oh, how I still long for them). The jeans hug the legs just the right way. One size fits the thighs and the waist. The jeans fit comfortably. They could bend over and not have to worry about their crack sticking out. They could walk 3 feet without having to pull up and adjust.

“So wear a belt.”

How I wished it were that simple. Oh, how unflattering and clunky they could be. And they didn’t particularly amp up the comfort level. Digging into my stomach leaving their vile imprints. Telling me that they didn’t want to be there as much as I didn’t want them to be there. Reflecting their disgust of me on my body.  Belts were not worth that trouble.

My legs were the solar system. My butt could only be the moon. A moon that was often crescent as I bent over. It was the worst. My waist was Pluto, so insignificant, it might as well not have been mentioned. And my thighs could only be Jupiter, the biggest, roundest planet in the solar system.  Noticeable by all. Visible to the naked eye.

My thighs, the size of Jupiter, how did I learn to love you?