The trouble with having too much time on your hands is that you have the opportunity for introspection. Generally speaking, contemplating your own naval, as my father would describe it, is not a good thing. Failing that option, instead I turn to extrospection, examining my outward appearance. It is sad to realize that having hidden my legs for 37 years, I arrived on these shores to gradually appreciate that my legs might actually have been my best asset all that time, and that muscly legs are not necessarily something to be shunned. It is sadder still to shortly thereafter, be apprised of the view, that persons over the age of 35 should not expose their legs, due to the one of the many rules exposed by the "What Not to Wear” team.
I was reluctant to adopt this view as it came too quickly after the earlier information, I hadn’t had time to assimilate these mutually exclusive rules. Now, a couple of years later again, now that I have time to observe myself [ they’re camping] I am alarmed to note that my knees need a lift. As I look down I seem to have two pouches of surplus skin flopping over my knee caps. It’s not fat, it’s just skin, orange segments, dollops of baggage, but perhaps more cantaloupe sized? This must have been what they were referring too. If I sit down, which I rarely do, they’re not so noticeable, but standing, which I my usual mode of operation, or alternatively, being in a state of perpetual motion, there they are, flapping away like a pair of emergency wings.
Still at least my knees match my eyes now.
1 hour ago
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