So my daughter Julia is obsessed with thighs. Not as in “chicken thighs are on sale at the SuperMart so I filled my basement with them” obsessed, mind you. No, she’s obsessed with women’s thighs, especially her own. Some nutjob fashion psycho has convinced her that there should be a gap between her legs, like she’s some horse freak whose knees don’t work right anymore. As in she needs to become so emaciated, refugee camp skinny that her legs will no longer invade each other’s personal space. I think she actually believes that her boyfriend will dump her if her he hears her corduroys rubbing together or something. I swear, she is on the living room floor right now doing something obscene with stretchy bands trying to make this a reality.
In my day, the only time we thought about thighs touching was when our mothers yelled not to come home from the movies pregnant. Now, I guess women have time to worry about things like not being born bowlegged. Who’d have guessed.
If Julia asked me, which she won’t, I could tell her several things wrong with this obsession of hers.
First: If a man knows whether or not your thighs touch before you’re actually having sex with him, you’re not wearing enough clothes in public.
Second: Inner thighs? Seriously? Girls, that’s not what he’s thinking about when he’s looking at your crotch.
Third: This is a “problem” anyone can overcome without contortions on the living room floor or diets that involve nothing but broth and steamed kale. Here’s the magic bullet. Are you ready? WEAR A SKIRT. No one knows what the hell your thighs look like in a skirt. Then, when you find a man you like and you’re using the living room floor the way it was intended some night, you’ll have the perfect test of your relationship. Because if he’s all hot and bothered, and he finally gets to see you naked, and he suddenly decides—you know, never mind, because I really want a girl whose thighs look like steak knives—well, you know that he is either A) gay, or B) Satan. In either case, you need to stop dating him. Like, now.
And Fourth: If you know another woman who will actually give you that critical, raised eyebrow look when you mention your thighs, instead of telling you to shut up and taking you out for pizza and beer, then that woman is just a bitch. There, I said it.
Now shut up and go shop for skirts and order a pizza.