skinning myself ...

today i come to you with second-degree chafing on my inner thighs. twin patches that resemble chin acne. it feels a little like a braille message reading: buy thighmaster.

this is what i get for running in what was designed, marketed and sold as a pair of little boy-style swim suit bottoms. and for having thighs like a retired male soccer player, heavy emphasis on retired. and for every piece of skin on my body being its own sweat sponge. and for the invention of friction. and not carrying vaseline in my sports bra.

i didn't even notice that i was skinning myself until i was far away from home. eventually i stopped running and hobbled back bowlegged and 3 pounds lighter for the exfoliating.

i reminded myself of a woman who was on the track team with in college. a solid hulk of bulging decathlete. she could run any distance, throw javelins and triple jump like a fiend. but she walked like her bowels had given out when she landed. her thighs were like buoys gift-wrapped in skin. i expected them to turn green when she got mad. her knees pointed out from the burden of lugging them from victory to victory.

i wonder if her thighs are sagging chafe makers now, too.

i like to think that for a good stretch of london road, i was shooting off flames. tiny sparklers spitting from my thighs. my own personal fourth of july parade. nothing tricks people into thinking 'wow, she's fast' like fire.

i also learned that nothing goes worse with a pair of jeans, than second-degree chafing on your inner thighs.