I’ve never liked my thighs. On a good day they’re like rocky road ice cream, the appropriate mix of hard and soft, but on a bad day, they’re like rising bread dough that’s doubled in size. Unlike necks and foreheads, you can’t inject thighs with Botox to make them look better. Short of lunges and squats and lots of targeted exercise, there’s not a damn thing you can do about marshmallow thighs. The good thing about my thighs is I don’t have cellulite, something I attribute to good genes and that I pretend dairy products are poisonous.
Stop eating cheese and see how much better the back of your thighs look.
Why am I talking about my thighs? It’s bathing suit season. I don’t remember the last time I went shopping for a bathing suit, but I do remember the summer of my 13th birthday when one of my falsies went floating past a guy I had a crush on. Humiliated, I drug myself and my new Jantzen one piece out of the pool, vowing never to go out in public, again.
In my 20s and 30s, I frequently went scuba diving, taking underwater pictures and searching for lost Spanish treasure. Most of the time I wore a wetsuit or long pants and a long sleeve shirt over my bikini as protection for when the waves slammed me into the fire coral. It’s ironic that when I’d finally “filled out,” I was covering it up.
In my mid-40s I bought a neon pink one piece that had no back, a deep v-neck and the legs in front were cut up to my navel. I’ve never had a better bathing suit. It was like fly paper, except instead of flies, it caught every man who walked by. By then, my thighs weren’t perfect, but men didn’t seem to notice or care. They were like dogs on a hot summer day with their tongues hanging out. In retrospect I think their panting had nothing to do with my thighs, but everything to do with the color of my bathing suit. Hot pink says you’re comfortable with yourself, and to a man, there’s nothing sexier than a woman who knows who she is and who owns it… as opposed to the wallflower, wearing a tan cardigan.
When you’re shopping for a bathing suit, what do you think as you look at yourself in the dressing room mirror?
- OMG, how did I let this happen?
- I can always wear a towel or a sarong around my waist.
- Maybe I need a bathing suit with a skirt.
- It’s this damn fluorescent lighting.
If you’re like me, you’ve said all of these, at one time or another, although I’ve never understood the suit with the skirt look. Chubby thighs in a tutu are still chubby thighs in a tutu. Whatever our age, we may not want to wear falsies or bikinis, but then again, who says we can’t? So, here’s one more thing to think about in the dressing room:
- To hell with it! I’m not my thighs. I’m wearing what I want.