My mom was always hiding her legs. She had varicose veins, especially on one side, and I only remember her wearing shorts a couple of times. It always seemed that she was embarrassed. She was probably the one who started me shaving my legs. I don't really remember a time when I didn't. I remember a few nicks around my ankles (the razors got so much better, thanks to Gillette's Venus design) and an early attempt with the sulphorous smelling nair. I missed the waxing until I was in Montreal. An expensive way, but lasted longer. I might have continued if the local esthetician wasn't hairless and gave me the impression that she couldn't related to my hairy body in any way and made it her mission to eliminate any hairs, at least in the area I paid for that day.
The reality is that I had good legs for a while. Sure, when I was a teen, I wished they didn't taper like chicken legs that I inherited from my dad. I only had one kid, so the varicosities I had were not as bad as if I had carried three. I never shaved above my knees, so there came a day that it just didn't make any sense to me why society didn't care about some parts of my body being hairy while others were frowned upon. I am a furry person. I have arm hair and facial hair and belly hair. If I removed every one of them, it would be a fulltime job! It would also look weird to me. When I stopped running and hit my 40s, my legs started to look worn.
When I look down on the legs I took a picture of in my 49th year, I know they are no longer great legs, but they are good legs. They work, get me where I need to go, and they are probably the best they are going to be for the foreseeable future. So I embrace the veins, the hair, the scars, and the wrinkles. Today, I celebrate these legs. These legs are my legs, and I am proud of them!
No comments:
Post a Comment