Pimp Roll
Right before my senior prom, I became very concerned about the size of my calves. Many women worry that they have fat calves, or even worse, cankles. But not me.
Folks in my family are cursed not only with hips large enough to easily birth a healthy-sized brood of hippos, but with "chicken legs" below the knees. I sometimes feared (even though I couldn't have been more than a size six at the time) that my legs looked like the chickens you'd buy at the store -- massive, white, meaty thighs perched atop skinny little bones that looked as though they might, at any moment, snap under the strain.
I wanted to look good for prom, so I started doing step aerobics. (It was the 90s. Shut up.) My calves muscled up a bit, and I was pleased with the results. I kept up the work when I got to college and even started using the calf weights machine, lifting, oh, I don't know, 40 or 60 pounds at a time and admiring the new curves below my knees.
Fast forward ten years or so to Chelsea Piers. I've been climbing and running and lifting and in general getting fit (and yet, somehow, fatter) for 10 years now and a few months ago, we got a new calf weight machine at the gym. I was pleased to see that I could now lift TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY POUNDS with my calves alone. I'm like a kangaroo! I could beat you up in a boxing match -- if only with my legs.
But I must have overdone it at some point because for the last week, I've been hobbling around like a polio victim who just had his knees clubbed. I think I must have torn a muscle or something in my left calf, and I think I'm only making it worse during my daily workouts.
ANYWAY, today I skipped out of work for a bit so I could make my way over to the Rockefeller Center post office to send pops a present for Father's Day. A side note on the Rock Center post office: this has got to be the mother-f**kin' hottest post office this side of the Sahara. Seriously, it's hotter than an August fish fry in Georgia down there.
But I digress. On my way to the post office, dragging my left leg behind me for half my stride, at some point I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length window I was walking by.
And then, I had a horrific realization: I look like a white girl trying to sport a pimp roll.
It's time to get out of Brooklyn (or at least get some physical therapy).
Folks in my family are cursed not only with hips large enough to easily birth a healthy-sized brood of hippos, but with "chicken legs" below the knees. I sometimes feared (even though I couldn't have been more than a size six at the time) that my legs looked like the chickens you'd buy at the store -- massive, white, meaty thighs perched atop skinny little bones that looked as though they might, at any moment, snap under the strain.
I wanted to look good for prom, so I started doing step aerobics. (It was the 90s. Shut up.) My calves muscled up a bit, and I was pleased with the results. I kept up the work when I got to college and even started using the calf weights machine, lifting, oh, I don't know, 40 or 60 pounds at a time and admiring the new curves below my knees.
Fast forward ten years or so to Chelsea Piers. I've been climbing and running and lifting and in general getting fit (and yet, somehow, fatter) for 10 years now and a few months ago, we got a new calf weight machine at the gym. I was pleased to see that I could now lift TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY POUNDS with my calves alone. I'm like a kangaroo! I could beat you up in a boxing match -- if only with my legs.
But I must have overdone it at some point because for the last week, I've been hobbling around like a polio victim who just had his knees clubbed. I think I must have torn a muscle or something in my left calf, and I think I'm only making it worse during my daily workouts.
ANYWAY, today I skipped out of work for a bit so I could make my way over to the Rockefeller Center post office to send pops a present for Father's Day. A side note on the Rock Center post office: this has got to be the mother-f**kin' hottest post office this side of the Sahara. Seriously, it's hotter than an August fish fry in Georgia down there.
But I digress. On my way to the post office, dragging my left leg behind me for half my stride, at some point I caught a glimpse of myself in a full-length window I was walking by.
And then, I had a horrific realization: I look like a white girl trying to sport a pimp roll.
It's time to get out of Brooklyn (or at least get some physical therapy).
posted by Had To Move at 4:53 PM
1 Comments:
just the other day i was riding my bike thinking about this...how women are so concerned with legs.
they generally care about guys legs too. (ive known girls to melt over some dudes calves) what is funny about the whole thing is that many guys work their upper body and have puny skinny-ass pasty legs.
to quote pedro.."so put on whatever makes you attractive. if its not you then do it for the sake of fashion."
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