Her Fat Thighs Aren’t About You. Or Are They?
By Anna Maiden
You know her.
You know how lazy she is and how she always goes in for second helpings of triple ripple ice cream.
Always the extra large bucket of popcorn.
Pretend exercising while squeezed into hideous lycra.
You already know all about her. Her type. Her kind. Really, you’re in a totally justified position to judge, because you know all the facts. Her dimply hams deserve your comments.
She has it coming.
The way they press together in the middle, and overlap when she’s walking. They way they wobble in those shorts. It’s just gross. In fact, she deserves those fat thighs.
But, wait. What if she’s happy with her thighs? What then?
You hate her now. For being so smug about being fat. And happy. Being a useless glutton and not even being sorry about it? Now you’re pissed.
You want justice. You’re going to look at pictures of ugly fat people online and watch videos of them falling over in kiddie pools and showing their butt cracks in Walmart.
Besides that, you know she doesn’t really like her thighs. She’s not really happy. You know she actually cries herself into a double fudge super sin pot every night.
You’d like that, wouldn’t you? It would validate all the thoughts and notions you’ve ever held about her. Keeps the right labels pinned firmly to the right shirts.
But the truth is, her fat thighs are none of your business.
Because their hers. Straight up. They belong to her.
You see, the thing is, this isn’t about BMI ratios, medical statistics, or feminist propaganda. It’s not even political correctness and finding a nice way of breaking the big bulging news to her gently — of telling her that her voluptuousness is simply too much to handle, honey.
It’s not necessary in any way, shape, or form to have an opinion about how many square inches of cellulite she’s allowed to have.
In fact, her belly is none of your business. She has stretch marks and two big rolls from two big babies. She’s wearing that tight red tank-top because she wants to.
Her boobs are none of your business. She never wears a bra at home. She shows cleavage at work, but it’s not for the promotion. Or the boss.
Her face is none of your business. She forgot to pluck and wears flamingo fire lipgloss. Her wrinkles are hers to own or discard in whatever way she chooses. She doesn’t take selfies.
Her ovaries, her biological clock, her womb, her blood, her bones. None of it is your business.
But this is great news, because it also means that your body is no one else’s biz.
And that you don’t have to have those thoughts about yourself, either. About your fat thighs. About your poochy belly and small boobs and the big open pores on your nose.
Because that’s the only reason you did it in the first place.
Made the jokes, left the comments, watched the vids. Not because it made you feel good, but because it made you feel less bad.
Because this is about you, isn’t it? Not her. It was never about her.
I don’t care about your fat thighs. They’re none of my business.
But you do. Like really a lot. And if you told her that, she’d totally understand. She’d tell you not to listen to the haters and secretly confide how hard she’s been trying to lose the weight, rubbing her wrists, saying that she has bad thoughts about doing bad things to them sometimes, and you’d say, “No, please – you’re such a beautiful person! My thighs are fat, too, see?” And you’d both laugh and talk about how much you love Beyonce and Mad Men re-runs.
You’d realize that her thighs mean nothing.
And neither do yours.
And that really, truly, none of it’s anybody’s business.
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