Somebody please take me to LA.

No, not Los Angeles. Leggings Anonymous.

I’m going through a leggings phase, and I’m sorry I’m not sorry.

I know my thighs touch, but leggings are just so comfortable!

And they’re socially acceptable. Not to the degree I wear them, but to some degree.

It all started two Halloweens ago, when my lack of creativity and unwillingness to squeeze into (and spill out of) a naughty nurse outfit resulted in my dressing in all black and calling myself a cat. 

My roommate at the time let me borrow a pair of her black leggings, and it was love at first wear.  What started as a pathetic excuse for a Halloween costume quickly turned into a lifestyle change. And before I knew it, leggings had taken over my wardrobe.

Up until that point, I had convinced myself that I didn’t have the legs to sport leggings. And I don’t. Not even close. In fact, I should be wearing the world’s widest bell-bottoms to make my childbearing hips appear smaller. When I wear leggings, my bottom half looks like an ice cream cone. 

But I justified wearing them because, I thought to myself, “there are plenty of people out there who shouldn’t be wearing leggings but do anyway. I can’t possibly be the worst.”

What a horrible, horrible justification.

You’d think I would’ve thrown out every pair I own after my friend said, “Kate. You’re the most spandexed friend I have.”

What he really wanted to say was, “Please stop wearing leggings. Here. Borrow a pair of my jeans.”

But I won’t stop wearing them. Not until something equally as comfortable and much more flattering comes along. Or not until someone finds my stash and throws them all away—doing me and the rest of the world a big favor.

Whichever comes first.

You don't realize...

You don’t realize how unpopular you are until you forget to bring your phone to work and discover that you have only received one text message – one text message – when you get home that night.

You don’t realize how out of shape you are until the weather drops into the 20s and your heavy breathing is impossible to hide. For clarification, please see: Kate McKenna walking to the bus stop this morning.

You don’t realize how mundane your life is until your morning is ruined because Pioneer Woman hasn’t updated her blog in 12 hours. 

You don’t realize how good you had it when you were 12 until the friction created by your thighs has worn 2 gaping holes on the inside of your pant legs. For clarification, please see: Kate McKenna walking to the bus stop this morning.

You don’t realize how much you've become like your Dad until you find yourself reading Lou Holtz: An Autobiography on your way to and from work.

You don’t realize how bad your sweating problem really is until you find that you sweat just as much in the winter as you do in the summer. For clarification, please see: Kate McKenna walking to the bus stop this morning.

You don't realize how much you've become like your Mom until you religiously follow blogs titled Between Naps on the Porch and Content in a Cottage.

Please Report Any Unattended Bags Or Suspicious Behavior To The Bus Driver

DISCLAIMER: If you are easily offended or disgusted, do not continue reading.

DISCLAIMER #2: Given the nature of this blog entry, I will not be including any pictures. You will understand why momentarily. And you will thank me.

When work ideas are fresh in my mind, I like to continue brainstorming on my hour-long bus ride home. I rarely get much accomplished, but it’s a nice way to pass the time and it makes me appear intelligent and ambitious.

Neither of which I am.

People peek over my shoulder and read on as I scribble words like paroxysmal nocturnal hemoglobinuria, chronic hemolysis, and complement inhibitor.

They must be so impressed.

A few weeks ago, however, my scribbling was a little less clinical. A little less intelligent. A little less…socially acceptable.

But before I continue, here’s some background information.

I write for a healthcare advertising agency, and I was recently assigned the task of coming up with a name for our IBS campaign. For those of you who are unfamiliar with IBS, it stands for Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Tens of thousands of Americans suffer from it, but many people are embarrassed to talk about it. So we set out to create a campaign that would facilitate a countrywide discussion surrounding IBS and its symptoms. We wanted to make talking about digestive health a little less taboo.

And so I boarded the 64, sat down, and got to work.

The bus filled up—awkward body parts invading my personal space—but nothing could break my concentration now.

Before I knew it, I had filled an entire page with names, including:

            Project Defecation Declaration

            Shout, Shout Let It All Out           

            The Feces Species

            Poop: It’s what we do.

And my favorite, my pride and joy, my baby…

            The Bowel Movement

How obvious. How appropriate. How inappropriate. How gross. How perfect.

I was in a groove. “How do you like me now, writer’s block?!” I thought to myself as words flowed like…water…onto the paper in front of me.

I was circling the ones I liked, crossing out the ones I didn’t like, giggling as I went. 

I had just reached the bottom of the page when the monotone, automated bus voice announced, “Please report any unattended bags or suspicious behavior to the bus driver.”

It was at this time that I remembered the over-the-shoulder peekers. The people who stand above me and read along as I write. 

The people who had once admired my 100 page medical manuscripts. The people who had once thought of me as ambitious and intelligent. 

The people who were now burning holes in the back of my head with their judgmental stares.

I lifted my head and glanced upward only to be met by a number of disgusted faces.

Oh dear God. I slid down into my seat; my chin pressed to my chest—my face now a lovely shade of red.

Would I be reported for circling, asterisking, and underlining The Bowel Movement? Would I be kicked off the bus for giggling as I wrote The Feces Species? Would I be forced to sit at the front of the bus with my hands where everyone could see them?

My over-the-shoulder peekers continued shooting me disapproving looks.

How could I possibly explain the "list of words that rhyme with poop" down the right side of the page? How could I explain the countless catchy poop slogans and the sketches that accompanied them? What kind of sicko did I look like?

I folded the paper, slid it into my purse, and stared out the window for the remainder of the bus ride.

Lesson learned.

So easy an English major can do it!

I picked up a new hobby 2 weeks ago, and I’ve become addicted. It has become a part of my morning commute.

Is it something cool? Nope!

Is it cardiovascular? Absolutely not!

Are you the only person on the bus doing this? Sure am!

2 weeks ago, I got hooked on Sudoku puzzles. 

As a matter of fact, just last Friday night I completed 4 of them!

Yes, you read that correctly, I said Friday night.

I snuggled up on the couch, watched the 11 o’clock news, and solved a few Sudoku puzzles.

Later that night I applied Bengay to my entire body, gave my dentures a good scrubbing, and fell asleep to the Golden Girls.

Actually the Golden Girls part might be true. I do love Bea Arthur, and our voices are frighteningly similar. 

What's that you say? My life is pathetic? Yes, yes it is. 

Say that again? 22-year-olds should go out on Friday nights? Yes, yes they should.

Pardon? You agree that I sound like Bea Arthur? And I look like her too? Why thank you.

But enough about my feminine voice and exciting social life.

Two Mondays ago, I got on the bus and spotted an abandoned Boston Metro newspaper. I opened up to the crossword section, but the Sudoku puzzles caught my eye instead. Or perhaps I just have an aversion to crossword puzzles because I'm an uncultured swine.

Anyway, the directions read:

How to play Sudoku: Fill in the grid so that every row, every column and every 3x3 box contains the digits 1-9. There is no math involved. You solve the puzzle with reasoning and logic.

Is it me, or is that written in an incredibly condescending tone?

It might as well say, “So easy an English major can do it!”

I accepted the challenge and set out to complete my very first Sudoku puzzle.

45 minutes and two pencil erasers later, I got off of the bus with a blank Sudoku puzzle in hand and eraser particles all over my jeans.

It wasn’t until I sat down in my cube, however, that I noticed the eraser particles. Everyone  —  not just the group of construction workers — was staring at me on my walk to work.

I should've known something was up.

Long story short, it took me an entire week to successfully complete a puzzle. Apparently my logic and reasoning skills are comparable to my math skills.

I am the dumbest McKenna, after all.

Moving on.

As long as we're on the topic of the left side of the brain vs. the right side of the brain, I was always under the impression that those who lack math skills have very good people skills.

[Insert buzzer noise here]

Wrong.

I disprove that theory altogether. I'm about as socially awkward as they come. 

It doesn't help that I have overactive sweat glands. Too much information? Sorry. Just wanted to give you some insight as to why I'm so awkward. And that's just the beginning.

More to come on my social awkwardity. (I'm a "writer." I'm allowed to use poetic license.)

And more to come on my malfunctioning brain. Both sides.

Woe is me.

My Thighs Are Big, My Brain Is Small.

“Mom, is it true that I’m the dumbest of your four kids?”

“Oh honey that’s ridiculous!” she said, as she hid her face behind a Mary Higgins Clark novel.

I could’ve sworn I heard a snort.

Like so many situations in my childhood, I hated the response that I got from my Mom, so I set off to find my Dad. I was sure he’d feed me the answer I wanted to hear.

“Dad, is it true that I’m the dumbest of your four kids?”

“What a silly thing to say! Who said that?!” my Dad responded, his mouth curling at the corners.

2 problems here.

First of all, “What a silly thing to say!” and “Oh honey that’s ridiculous!” do not answer my question.

Secondly, the snort and smirk weren’t very reassuring.

So I confronted my entire family at once.

“Am I really the dumbest of the four kids?!”

I was bombarded with a series of irrelevant responses:

            “You’re great at sports!”

            “You have an athletic physique!”

            “You’re the toughest, by far!”

            “You’re certainly the best athlete!”

Oh how splendid.

What I lack in intelligence I more than make up for in testosterone.

I wore Dockers in the 5^th grade. I had an androgynous haircut until…well…I think that’s still up for debate. My first book was Play Ball, Kate.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

My blood was boiling, so I yelled.

“WELL WHAT WAS YOUR GPA IN HIGH SCHOOL?!" (As if that’s any indication of intelligence.)

“DID YOU EVER HAVE A POEM PUBLISHED?!” (I authored “The Sounds of Life” in 6^th grade - what a deep concept - and they only published my poem in hopes that my parents would be foolish enough to buy the $100 anthology.)

“WERE YOU EDITOR OF THE SCHOOL NEWSPAPER?!” (I was just socially maladjusted enough to accept the position.)

“DID YOU MAKE DEAN’S LIST IN COLLEGE?!" (I’m almost positive the Emmanuel College mission statement is, “Providing a first class education to anyone with a pulse.”)

Everyone stared in horror.

My Dad chimed in, “Now, now, you’re very gifted! All of my kids have been blessed in different ways!”

He spoke slowly and deliberately, making sure that I understood every word.

Oh I understood.

I'm not very smart, but at least I can kick a soccer ball far!

My terrible, horrible, no good, very wet commute

My otherwise dull and muted wardrobe comes to life on rainy days. I slip on my hot pink rain boots, zip up my magenta raincoat and pop open my bright blue umbrella. And by “comes to life,” I mean makes me look manic.

In most situations, I would never think to mix my pinks and carry a blue umbrella, but I somehow justify it because it’s raining. As if a little rain excuses my wretched appearance. 

Rainy days make my already awful commute that much more awful. This morning was no different.

And so it started on my way to the bus stop. 

As I crossed Tremont St., I rolled my ankle and nearly face-planted in front of a line of impatient and judgmental commuters, sitting comfortably in their warm, dry cars. I winced in pain but carried on across the street as if my jerk was a perfectly natural movement.

As Ellen Degeneres put it, pain takes a backseat to embarrassment.

How, exactly, did I roll my ankle, you ask?

 

Well first of all, I have play dough for ligaments. My ligaments have as much elasticity as a fat man’s underwear band. So all it takes is for a small pebble to get underfoot and I’m down for the count.

Secondly, I evidently thought I was chic when I bought my rain boots, because I bought rain boots with a wedge. Yes, they’re hot pink. Yes, they have a wedge.

And yes, my ankles and my pride regret that decision every time it rains.

This morning, my fellow commuters and I were accompanied by not one, not two, but three baby strollers. (In retrospect, riding around in a 2-door, Plum-colored Dodge Shadow for most of my childhood wasn’t that bad. Or was it?)

As if sitting on an odiferous, dirty bus for an hour isn’t bad enough, I had to listen to three screaming babies. Their pre-teen mothers, who are seemingly incapable of parenting, ignored the crying and carried on with their phone conversations.

Courtesy counts, pre-teen mothers excluded.

Shortly after the baby brigade boarded, a man sporting a faded Canadian tuxedo plopped down in the seat next to me. He slurped his large Dunkin Donuts iced coffee in my ear and sighed every five minutes, blowing his dragon breath in my direction.

Not to mention our thighs were touching. But that’s entirely my problem.

When I finally escaped the babies and breath, I started what ended up being a 10-minute-long battle with my umbrella.

I bought the umbrella at Shaw’s for $10. First mistake.

My second mistake was buying an umbrella. Boston is the windiest city in the country, (Chicago should really consider changing its nickname) so when you open an umbrella, you’re asking for trouble.

I had no control over my umbrella. People gawked as I struggled to turn it right side in. Or were they gawking at my ensemble? Or maybe they were gawking at the make-up running down my face as a result of having no protection from the rain.

I look really great today.

More to come on my commute.

…hallowed be thigh name. Thigh kingdom come, thigh will be done…

Two Sundays ago, instead of repenting for my sins and saying the Rosary, I spent the duration of mass trying to come to terms with the size of my thighs.

It all started shortly after I thanked God for my “blessings.” My big, big blessings.

I peeled my knees off of the kneeler, sat back in the pew, and looked down in horror at my flattened thighs. I did a double take. I evidently have a lot to be thankful for.

It occurred to me at that very moment that I had spent my adolescence walking around with Christmas hams for thighs.

I looked back down at them to make sure they belonged to me. I always knew that my thighs were not small…but were they really that big?!

And then I remembered that a boy affectionately called me “Tree Trunks” and “Thunder Thighs” during my high school years.

And people wonder why I’m self-conscious.

And I wonder how he got a girlfriend saying things like that.

And I wonder how my thighs got so big.

I looked to my right to find that my sister’s thighs—pressed against the pew just like my own—had barely changed shape. She has asparagus stalks for legs.

I looked up at the cross and noticed that even Jesus’ thighs were thin. (Blasphemous, I know.)

If the priest weren’t wearing his garb, you bet I would’ve looked at his legs, too. (Blasphemous again, I know.)

But then I thought to myself...if I am created in the image and likeness of God, then God must have quite a pair of thighs on him! (My great aunt is turning in her grave.)

I scanned the congregation hoping to spot some legs comparable to my Christmas hams, but much to my dismay, I discovered quite a few wheezened-thighed, white-haired parishioners. Old age is wasted on the old.

I saw green bean legs, carrot stick legs, pea-pod legs and asparagus legs. So many side dishes, and so few meats.

Then it occurred to me that I had just analyzed the congregation’s legs in terms of Christmas dinner. It’s no wonder I have hams for gams.

But food isn’t my only problem. Genetics dealt me an incredibly bad hand.

My father and oldest sister, Moira, both have legs that closely resemble those of a sandpiper. It’s an ongoing joke in our family that they actually have arms for legs. But upon further investigation, my arms are much bigger than their legs, so that is no longer a funny joke.

Once I got the image of my Dad’s face superimposed on a sandpiper’s body out of my head, I decided to pray.

Dear God,

            I know this is terribly vain of me, but could you please shrink my thighs? And if you have any extra time (although it’s doubtful that you will), would you mind shrinking a few other things? I think you and I both know what I’m talking about. Amen.

At the end of mass, I genuflected gingerly as if not to split my pants, and skulked out of the church.

My prayer has yet to be answered. As a matter of fact, my pants feel especially tight today. I wonder if God is punishing me for saying that his thighs are big. Shame on me.

Next up: Why do I Have Man Hands? A Seinfeld-inspired Reflection.