I dated a guy in college whose sister ran track. She was a good runner, very slim and muscular, but she kept losing races to a girl who had thighs just like mine. The kind of thighs that no matter how long, how fast, or how far you run, will always just flap in the breeze. It's odd, too, because if you start at my ankles, everything looks pretty good. Keep driving straight, and you'll cruise right over my inner calves, good, good, (wave to the knees!) good, straight ahead, and then WHOA. Giant flesh-tone speed bump. It's just the way it is. Anyway, my boyfriend's father found it intolerable that "Thunder thighs" (his words) kept kicking his daughter's ass at the track.
"It's a wonder that girl can even walk, not to mention run," he'd say, and then he'd make this blub blub blub blub blub noise to demonstrate the "sound" of this girl winning a race. It was horrible.
Where was I going with this? I have no idea.
You guys don't care if I just riff, right?
So, did you know that the British don't call bathing suits "bathing suits"? They call them Swimming Costumes. I think this is really clever. Because then it's like a play. And you're just another actor at the mercy of the costume lady.
THIGHS AT THE Y
A One-Act Play
And the critics rave!
"Thighs is a HUGE hit!"
"The season's BIGGEST surprise!"
"Three Cheers for Thighs at the Y! ... Blub Blub Blub!"