So my daughter Julia is obsessed with thighs. Not as in “chicken thighs are on sale at the SuperMart so I filled my basement with them” obsessed, mind you. No, she’s obsessed with women’s thighs, especially her own. Some nutjob fashion psycho has convinced her that there should be a gap between her legs, like she’s some horse freak whose knees don’t work right anymore. As in she needs to become so emaciated, refugee camp skinny that her legs will no longer invade each other’s personal space. I think she actually believes that her boyfriend will dump her if her he hears her corduroys rubbing together or something. I swear, she is on the living room floor right now doing something obscene with stretchy bands trying to make this a reality. In my day, the only time we thought about thighs touching was when our mothers yelled not to come home from the movies pregnant. Now, I guess women have time to worry about things like not being born bowlegged. Who’d have guessed. If Julia asked me, which she won’t, I could tell her several things wrong with this obsession of hers. First: If a man knows whether or not […]
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