Chunky ankle horror
All this running around at weekends is giving me messy legs (bramble scratches, scuffs and bruises). Drat. I also have creeping paranoia that I'm developing thick ankles from the rough terrain. Hitherto, these had been my pride and joy, inherited from my dear twig-like mother (in the genetic rather than "last will & testament" sense, you understand).
Saints preserve us. I'm in danger of breaching one of the two crucial body-image rules, being:
The shapeliness of your leg is dictated by whether you have decent ankles. Fat knees? Who cares! As long as your ankles are slender, it doesn't matter if your thighs chafe.
Of course, the other rule is still my favourite:
You're not really fat all the time your boobs stick out further than your belly.
Observe this and marvel at my wisdom.
Saints preserve us. I'm in danger of breaching one of the two crucial body-image rules, being:
The shapeliness of your leg is dictated by whether you have decent ankles. Fat knees? Who cares! As long as your ankles are slender, it doesn't matter if your thighs chafe.
Of course, the other rule is still my favourite:
You're not really fat all the time your boobs stick out further than your belly.
Observe this and marvel at my wisdom.
posted by OboeJane at 10:55 pm
2 Comments:
Well, it seems as if all the saints have conspired to ensure you will never be fat! (Although, having met your mother, who is as you say similar in appearance to the wonderful Twiggy, I am interested to know which branch of the genetic tree enabled you to have the built-in bouyancy of a life jacket?) Perhaps you could sign up for the hard and slightly sofer porn available at the local barbers. Hell you might even get promotion on hair cut day!
The lard-packing Welsh dwarf side of the family, I'm afraid.
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