
Me and my legs. It’s complicated.
Like a lot of women, I have been waging a rather futile war against a body part of mine for decades now. Ever since I was in my teens, I’ve been self-conscious about my legs. They’re short, thick and being that I have very fair skin, that is jokingly referred to by friends, family and even medical professionals as being see-through, they’re splattered with visible spider/varicose veins in fairly prominent places.
All this has meant that I’ve gone to great lengths to always keep my thighs covered. Somewhere along the way – and I’d hazard a guess it began as a teenager in the 90s when Kate Moss and heroin chic reigned supreme – I ingested a message that my thighs were not rail thin and blemish free, therefore they should never see the light of day. It’s sad and depressing to look back on, but nonetheless true.
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And despite what people may or may not see when they look at my legs, no amount of reassurance from well-meaning loved ones has been able to make me feel differently about them over the years.
Primarily, because that’s not how insecurities work. Insecurity, as defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary, is "a state or feeling of anxiety, fear, or self-doubt." And we all know that where anxiety goes, rational thinking does not flow.