"Come here and put those ham hocks over me. " Michael whispers.
Obediently, I slide my legs over his and he is cozily tucked away underneath half of my body. I've become this warm flesh blanket.
I listen to my husband sigh contentedly and then drift off into quiet snores, if one can even describe his snoring as quiet. I lay in the darkness, very awake, contemplating how many times people have called my thighs "ham hocks" or "thunder thighs" and it has always held a negative connotation. Ever since I was baby/toddler/preschooler/kindergartener/grade schooler/middle schooler/high schooler/college student/wife/mother--you get it. I've always had these big thighs.
|As a baby girl in East L.A.|
|Me and my little brother, enjoying the sprinkler on a hot, sunny day. Peep the yellow bikini. Thanks, Mom.|
|Rocking the Stray Cats tee and yellow shorts that I couldn't get to button. I was eleven years old.|
It really used to bother me. The names. The big thighs.
When you are a young girl with womanly curves that you have no idea what to do with, it's uncomfortable. Everyone else had slim, girlish thighs. They could easily sit down and cross them, with minimal effort. They could get away with wearing shorts (that would button all the way!) without it looking too provocative. When they sat Indian-style--or, as my girls call it, criss cross apple sauce--they didn't have the occasional dimple or cellulite.
But I'm not a little girl anymore, I'm a grown woman. And these big thighs have planted me solidly on the ground for almost forty years (yes, forty is right around the corner--like next month--eeeeek!). Ham hocks and thunder thighs no longer hold a negative connotation. Yes, I still have a hard time squeezing these behemoths into leggings and tights but listen.
These thighs right here.
They are really warm to cuddle with.
They hold up the rest of my generous frame.
They are adored.