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.
