Tuesday, April 28, 2015

~ love letter to my legs ~

Yes, you read that title right.  This post is truly one long letter of appreciation addressed to my legs.  And no, I'm not joking.  So, if you're not in the mood for a whole heap of honesty and a solid attempt at body positivity, turn away now.

Ready?  Here we go.

Friends posing on Kirra Beach, 1938.Jersey shore, 1942.

Dear Legs,
     We've been through a lot together, you and I.  I've often taken you for granted, cramming you into too small skinny jeans and mismatched socks, letting half of you go uncovered in an attempt to get rid of a shorts tan (which doesn't work, by the way), and whacking you on the edge of the counter every single time I walk into the kitchen.

You put up with a lot on a daily basis, and for that, I am grateful.  So legs, here's something I've been meaning to say.

I'm sorry for the time I was three and covered every inch of you in Arthur and D.W. bandaids and refused to let anyone remove them for a week.
I'm sorry for cramming you into uncomfortable, sweaty tights, several days a week for 12 years.
I'm sorry for looking at you in the mirror and pinching areas that were too fat for my liking.
I'm sorry for hating your stretchmarks.
I'm sorry for that time in my life when I shaved you every other day, without fail, with nothing but a razor and some cold water.
I'm sorry for all the scars from years of raising kittens, and baby squirrels that fell out of trees during hurricanes.
I'm sorry for all the cuts and bruises from climbing over fences, skinning my knees, and that one time I fell and rolled ten feet down the sidewalk in the rain when I was late to class (though I totally blame my slippery Converse All Stars for that one).
I'm sorry for all the twisted ankles and hurt knees and pulled muscles that I ignored in an attempt to be a "serious dancer who doesn't let pain get in the way."
I'm sorry for hating you when you were muscular, and then hating you when you lost the muscle.
I'm sorry for obsessing over that weird cluster of freckles that you couldn't do a damn thing about.
I'm sorry for thinking you were fat and ugly and that my knees looked like displeased babies.
I'm sorry for hating your cellulite and covering you up so no one would see it.
I'm sorry for all the summers I wore jeans and long skirts so I wouldn't have to look at you and I'm sorry for going running in leggings, so that I wouldn't see you jiggle.

I'm sorry for caring more about what you look like, than how you feel.  I'm sorry for last week when I decided against wearing that dress because it showed my knees.  And I'm sorry for setting impossibly high expectations that even the strongest of legs would fall short of.

So even though it might take me a while, and I might have to re-read this post several times to encourage myself, I'm hoping to make up for my 19 years of bad behavior.  No more Jergen's self tanner, no more laziness, and no more leg-envy.  Let's begin, shall we?


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