My Legs Were Made For Climbing Mountains

For some reason I have always described my legs as ‘mountain climbing’ legs even though I don’t even know what that means. 

I’ve always had a funny relationship with my legs, and if you asked me about them I’d probably say ‘they’re not very good’. Ultimately, they’re fine. I mean they do all the basics well and for that I feel lucky, but aesthetically I wouldn’t describe them as my best feature, and perhaps that has become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

They’re a bit bowlegged and I never let them see the sun, I also hate shaving them and when I do I get a really sexy shaving rash, oh, and no matter how much I walk they tend to be that little bit flabby ya know? I don’t like wearing shorts and maybe that has meant that over the years I’ve neglected them more or perhaps because I don’t like my legs that much I don’t like wearing shorts…? My legs have definitely come from my mum’s side of the family, like I’m pretty sure you couldn’t be blamed for confusing my maternal grandma’s legs and mine in a line up, though I struggle to think of a situation in which that would happen.

This isn’t meant to be an article on which I hate on my legs but rather acknowledge them; maybe I could pay them more attention you know? So I bought an exfoliating mitt and am going to stop using soap on them and will moisturise them even though I vow to do that all the time. And if I do all that and still don’t get anywhere I am buying a Drindl and moving to the mountains. See you there?


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