Dear Thighs

Dear Thighs,

Imagine my surprise recently when I heard the smooth yet faint buttery sounds of Peaches and Herb coming from my pants. I see you have reunited.

It's true, Thighs, in the past I have never been very pleased with you, but I had thought we'd entered into a phase in our lives together where we agreed to respect personal boundaries as long as I was good about follicular upkeep. Clearly, I was mistaken.

Yes, I know I've been eating like a bear getting ready to hibernate for winter; and yes, I'm aware that my attendance at the gym has slacked off to, well, zero visits between I Can't Even Remember When and this past Sunday. But did you have to express your displeasure so chubbily? Jesus George, Thighs! Have a little decency. A little compassion!

And I know you're not alone. You're all ganging up on me. I know you've formed an unholy alliance with Belly and, of course, Cheeks - sadly, the ones on my face, as I wouldn't really mind were my rear cheeks to swell up in protest.

You may think you have me cornered, but I have an ally! Two allies to be exact! Boobies have taken your revolt quite in stride and I have to say I'm liking the results. I will miss them once I've managed to temper this recent unrest. I've accepted that they serve to keep me, er, buoyed during these times of waning physical confidence by providing, at the very least, one thing about myself I actually like. Sort of.

SO! Thighs. It has begun. Last night I stole 300 of your little caloric bullets, and I plan to do so again very soon by using YOU, the very thing trying to destroy me, in sweaty earnest!

I shall separate you like Joe Simpson separated Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson. Except, without all the backlash and inappropriate, pervy commentary from parental units.