My Thighs Now Rub Together When I Walk

It’s true. Oprah talked about this once. About how she didn’t know that women should have a “space” in-between their legs when they put their feet together. She was flabbergasted to discover that she didn’t have a space. That her thighs touch. (P.S. note the clever use of “flabbergasted” which so obviously connects with what I’m talking about…flab).

I have Oprah thighs, saweeet.

I only noticed this 2 days ago. I got up, started walking, and realized that the flesh from both legs started touching. The skin on skin contact grossed me out…Like nails on a blackboard…Sandpaper…My father’s back hair that sheds at an extraordinary rate all over my parents’ bathroom floor…Anyways, I now have to waddle. Guess who’s hitting the thigh machine tomorrow?

Somebody, who has great thighs. I’m sleeping.

On a happier note, I started my 5^th year of paying to torture myself. The building where most of my classes are is a miniature version of all the horrible things you can remember about public school. Circular tables. Group discussions where you share your thoughts & feelings. Pictures of zebras on the walls & bean plants sprouting on the window ledges.

The worst part is that this building has NO AIR CONDITIONING & is a good 10-15 walk in the SCORCHING HOT SUN to get to the main campus. Each classroom has one tiny window. I had so much sweat happening the other day it was disgusting. I had back sweat, ass sweat, and belly sweat. There was so much sweat accumulating around my belly that I actually had a belly sweat spot on the front of my shirt. I spent the first day deciding whether to tie my sweater (don’t ask me why I happened to have one) around my belly to hide the sweat stain, or around my ass which felt like it was pruning after sitting in a hot bath for an hour. I know you probably didn’t want to hear all that, but it had to be told.

In order to make me feel not completely outside of my comfort zone, this year has presented itself with some familiarities. There is a professor that lists & explains his credentials for an hour at the start of class. There is a “mature student” who answers every question, asks ridiculous questions, and gives a ten minute statement about his days in the war. There is a bathroom loaded with pubes on the toilet seat & a handle to flush the toilet located in an illogical spot on the back wall (above it, in marker, it says in murderer-like writing: “Press & hold handal to flush.”)

Thank goodness, I was worried that I’d be a lost puppy this year.