Perfect Thighs Everywhere

Yesterday I started checking out people’s thighs as I went about my day. Some thighs were longer, some were shorter, some were wider. Some were skinny. Some were muscle-y. Some belonged to old people, and others belonged to young people. Some thighs were involved in walking, others in standing, and still others were crossed over the other leg while sitting. Some were held together seated on chairs. I’m sure some of them somewhere were splayed out, but I didn’t notice any.

And I realized that all the thighs are perfect and all the people they belong to, really all of them, are perfect, even if they do imperfect things. And I felt better. I felt good.

I breathed in and out leaving the supermarket full of perfect grocery shoppers and their perfect thighs and perfect groceries and perfect selves and went home and ate a medium-sized bowl of veggie corn chips. And it was delicious even though Sunshine likes to remind me that corn is used to fatten cattle.

I’ve been struggling with comparison-itis for a while now and I’m ready to be done with it. It makes it so much harder to simply be in the pack, a human among humans, doing human things, when I’m always looking to see if I’m keeping up, or falling behind whoever or whatever happens to catch my attention.

That car, that hair, those thighs, that career, those multiple children, that muffin-making, healthy smoothie-making proclivity, that insider-ness-ish, that belonging. I belong. With this car, this hair, these thighs, this life I’m living these days. I have something to offer and I’m going to offer it. I’m going to keep going.