There comes a point in your life when you feel comfortable with your thighs rubbing together in hot, public places.
I am not at that exit yet. I’m on the exit ramp, off to the side, where the truckers park to sleep.
I’m not talking about mentally comfortable. In fact, after 20 hours in a car with Jude rolling his eyes at me like Rusty Griswold, it only took three poolside margaritas for me to say fuck it, cut the legs off my jeans and dare myself to wear them. But, the physical aspect is still not where it needs to be. I wear dresses all the time, and am more than skilled in the art of coating my inner thighs with Secret and going about my day like a grown ass woman, but shorts present a whole new issue. In layman’s terms, I’m tired of trying to be casual and nonchalant about pulling jeans out of my vagina in front of strangers.
Step, step, yank. Step, step, step, yank yank.
In my head, I’m going to look like Carrie Underwood. In reality, I was a poor man’s Tobias Funke. My kids looked at me like I’d walked out of the bedroom wearing clothes made of live meowing cats.
Wow, what are you wearing?
I didn’t know moms wore shorts for fun outside?
I haven’t had a thigh gap since 3 months gestation. My thighs are thick, my weight loves to hang out there. The rubbing and lumps and dimples and paleness are no longer moments of insecurity, but memories of life lived, wine shared, kids birthed and Dead Like Me weekend marathons on the couch. Like rings on a chubby girl tree.
Dig, dig. Yank yank yank.
After a full day of walking around Downtown Disney yesterday, I leaned against the stucco wall of the Lego store and decided that I wasn’t ready for shorts, yet. I mean, an hour of shorts digging? Fine. Anything beyond that, and you’re just playing with it. I can’t watch my kids and be in charge of patrolling a border; it’s exhausting.
Fat thigh sidestep. Fat thigh sidestep.*
But the good news is that I tried it. I’m on the ramp. I almost have my blinker on. I’m just gonna wait here a bit, though, in my jeans and tank tops. Which is fine, guys, seriously. I’m not even hot. I swear.
*Fat thigh sidestep: That thing where you try and discreetly toss one of your legs off to the side mid-stride, hoping to create enough of an opening to allow for the bunched up fabric to fall free of it’s own accord, self correcting the shorts ride-up predicament. Fat thigh sidestep has a low efficacy rate and walks a thin line between The Ministry of Silly Walks and an awkwardly choreographed River Dance.