I was sitting outside this morning, taking a moment to drink my coffee in the quiet now that the girls have left for school. And in the morning light I noticed a dappling shimmer across my thigh. No, not the dappled light of the sun through the trees, the dappled light of the sun catching the dimples and creases along my leg.
Oh.my.god
I was never a huge beauty by society's standards, never had the silky blonde hair or lithe physique of an 80’s super model, I was more the ‘cute’ girl-next-door type. A word I grew to detest during my adolescence – cute. I got called it frequently at school (probably because I was short) and will never forget being reminded by a couple of bitchy girls that ‘cute’ really meant ‘ugly but interesting.’ I may have only been 5’2’’ and interesting, but my legs… well they were still my one thing. The thing people commented on. “Great legs” they’d say.
So even though my hair was mousy brown, and my chest was flat, it didn’t matter, because my short legs were at least ‘great’. Perhaps that meant I had the right amount of thigh gap, or that they were smooth, almost naturally hairless - thanks to my Dutch heritage – and slightly athletic? Whatever it was that deemed them ‘great’ I knew, if all else failed I could throw on a mini skirt and divert attention away from a breakout or my lacking bosom because my faithful pins would come through for me.
When I was in my 20’s I had two friends - one had the best boobs around. A quintessential ‘C’ cup. Perky. A hint of cleavage in dresses and ‘V’ neck sweaters. I was so envious of her beautiful bosom. She filled out a pair of bikinis perfectly where my teeny ‘A’s did not. I was always so self-conscious and marvelled enviously at the pretty lacy bras and backless tops that could be worn if you were naturally #blessed like she was.
The other friend in our trio had a wondrously tiny waist. Oh, to wear her flowing skirts and leather belts and wrap tops. That perfect diminutive waist was mesmerising. All the clothes fit so beautifully. Low waisted jeans, cropped tops showing off a hint of belly button, dresses that cinched in where they should, in enviable, off-the-rack perfection.
So, despite our personal flaws (this was the 90’s after all, when it was the patriarchy’s duty to remind women of their physical failings), we used to laugh and say that collectively we made the perfect woman – boobs, waist, and legs – we had it all.
My grandmother and aunt were the same shape as me. Classic apples. I looked to them to see my future and to create a plan to hack my genetics. This well thought out plan included mostly vegetable juices, a lot of gym days and the perpetuation of the disordered eating habits of my 20’s.
My aunt would tell me the boobs would come when the babies did - she was so right, it was a miracle! Of course, my body began to shift, and clothes, once baggy around my chest, became tighter in round apple-like fashion. Still, I swooned at pretty skirts and vowed to get back to the gym post haste, thankful at least that the beachy ‘mum’ uniform was a pair of decent cut-off shorts. My good ol’ legs were my salvation.
It’s funny this thing with legs; as I’d watch my daughters’ bodies change over the years, I always noticed their legs - from baby to toddler to, what I always refer to as, ‘little girl legs’ - suddenly they’d seem older, having lost those precious squishy thighs and dimpled hands. This visible change has always been a marvel to me.
I look wistfully at photos of the tiny babies once mine, those sweet cheeky toddlers running away from me in drunken-like wobbles and in their place are entirely new people living in my home. It’s ever changing, and I feel a sense of awe about it all. Of course, my daughters are not less than because they are changing, they are simply doing as nature and evolution intends - growing.
I can’t lie, when I first noticed my own legs begin to change at 47 years old, I felt a certain wave of panic. I caught a glimpse of a thigh dimple in the mirror and my heart paused. It couldn’t be. My face was changing, my hair was greying, my eyesight blurring, my belly softening and now my final talisman, my legs.
In the way one might feel sad about their child becoming a teenager and not wanting a hug in public, I felt a wistful sadness that that part of my life was over. Ageing is confronting – that first shock of grey hair, your first pair of glasses, the creases deepening - I had nothing more to hold onto for the sake of my vanity.
But as is this life, a series of little griefs and lessons in letting go, getting older has at least taught me that we are far more than the sum of our parts. More than the hills and valleys on our thighs, or the softness of our bellies. We are our laughter, our joy, and tears, we are open arms and comforting hugs. We are kind words from strangers, the touch of a lover, a secret shared and the vessel of grief we hold within. As the skin of beauty sheds, what is left behind is the truth, the soul, and the essence of a human.
After all it is not my Oma’s legs I miss, but her warm embrace, her tender hands that touch my cheek in greeting, her glorious Dutch accent that made listening to every word she spoke a delight. Nor is it my aunt’s belly that my memories call to mind, but her light. Her vivacious spirit that sucked at the core of joy and optimism. Oh, to leave a legacy like that, what a gift!
As for the girlfriend of my youth – it’s not her tiny waist or pretty skirts that make her dear to me, it’s the haven I can return to when the sea of life has battered me around. It’s the irreverent jokes and the knowledge that I am known and accepted for all that I am. It’s a shared history, our funny memories, and the privilege of seeing each other age and change and evolve.
Though bittersweet, I’m happy to trade my ‘great’ legs for all these wonders.
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