As the winter arrived, it meant I could finally take a break from shaving my legs. However, when I would stand up, my jeans would rise up and reveal my ankles that had hair about as long as my arm hair. I finally got tired of my friends laughing at me, so I decided it was time to shave. I went and bought some pretty pink razors and sat on the end of my shower with the water hitting my legs.
I had to go over each leg twice because of the severity, but when I was finished, I just sat and stared at my legs for a minute. They were now very smooth, but they were also pale from the lack of sunlight since they were being protected from the harsh winter. I looked at every scar and wished that I could make them disappear because I felt like they made my legs look so unattractive.
The more I thought about it, the more that I realized that my legs are a fine representation of who I am and what I’ve been through. These legs have held me up through times that I wanted to fall to my knees. They have provided a good stance whenever I finally broke down and fell to my knees to beg to God. These legs make me stand at a whopping 5’10 ½ and have always made me tower over the boys until we finally got to high school.
These legs have danced on the roads of over-crowded cities and small towns. They strolled the streets of France, Germany, New York, New Jersey, and Philly. They have felt the ocean hit the ankles that were sweating from the sun. They have run laps from talking a little too much during practice and have marched for hours at a time. These legs have scars from being a little girl and running just to trip and slide on the concrete. They anxiously carried me from building to building on my first day of college.
These legs have spent hours roasting in the sun so that they could radiate a nice glow. They have bent and stretched in ways that I could never imagine as I found a love for yoga. They have pushed the gas pedal a little harder as a 16-year-old with her licenses and a need for speed. When my first boyfriend left me, he told me that I was “just a dumb, country girl with f**ked up knees”. Ever since then I would glare down at my knees with that comment running through my mind.
As I sat there and stared at my f**cked up knees, I couldn’t help but smile. I smiled because I know that these legs have been through a lot; they have taken me where I needed to go. Every scar has some sort of representation. I don’t think I really mind being a "dumb, country girl with f**ked up knees." Love yourself.. Every inch of yourself.
