My chubby little legs.
I don’t like my body. I don’t like my face — granted, I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it, but I hate how many wrinkles I’ve accumulated on my forehead, my double chin (ok, my third chin), my fat neck. I hate my flabby upper arms, my rolled fat of my sides, big stomach and butt. I absolutely hate my flat, flat, and did I mention flat and wide feet (although to be fair, I never had arches). I had special exercises for those flat feet when I was but a young child, and they certainly had my parents worried.
But something amazing happened recently, something I would qualify as miraculous if I was a religious woman. I realized that I absolutely loved my chubby little legs.
I think it happened when I referred to my legs for the umpteenth time as “my chubby little legs” that they were the only body parts that I never truly insulted. My reference to “my chubby little legs” is more of term of endearment, and an accurate description rather than an insult. And honestly, I believe this is why:
When I was younger, they were very strong, and then when I did Tae Kwon Do — eventually becoming a black belt — they became stronger. My chubby little legs were my transportation, allowing me to run and jump and hike, and kick and leap.
Age, early onset arthritis/cartilage degeneration, and now several operations later — two new hips and one new…
