Yes, I’m aware it’s a ZZ Top song. It’s been stuck in my head for a week.
I wore a dress this week at work to impress a group of people that I desperately wanted to impress. After a restructure, yet again, I find myself lost and flailing at my job, looking for finger holds before I fall. There have been a lot of questions, a lot of my asking angry questions and making demands that maybe, I have no place in making, but I do anyways because I’m pissed off.
Which is why I found myself wearing a dress and a blazer in a room full of people and feeling oh-so-fucking lost. Literally walked in with a water bottle and a computer, and didn’t say a word because I was so nervous that I thought if I opened my mouth, I’d throw up. I haven’t done that in a long time.
I’m also pretty sure that I didn’t impress anyone.
But. This isn’t about my job, or my anger, or my sudden insecurities in my expertise.
This is about my legs.
During a quick bathroom break in between meetings, I caught sight of my legs in the full length mirror. My first thoughts were “oh dear god, why did I think that wearing a short dress today? I’m so PASTY and when did I get dimples over my knees?!”
My second and third and fourth thoughts were of how much I like my legs.
Because they had to be. I just had walked out of a meeting where I felt like, for the first time in a couple of years, I face planted. So, in a time where I felt like a big fat failure, I decided to fall in love with my legs and love them endlessly for the rest of the day.
I like that my legs don’t get tired. I can walk and walk and walk forever, I walk quite regularly with one of my beautiful friends through the river valley for several kilometres at a time. My calves are strong and shapely, and so is my butt. My knee, as broken as it is, and as often as it pops out of place, it can move as I need it to. I can still do yoga, and I have started doing aqua fit. And my knee isn’t the strongest knee there has ever been, but it’s still strong enough that I can move (even though it aches when I get tired), and I feel grateful that it gets happy when I prop it up on a pillow.
I like that I have been able to move through a whole bunch of country and take all kinds of adventures. I’m grateful that I get to move and exist. I like that, even though I’m a stubborn, persistent, pigheaded human who destroyed my hips/knees/ankles/feet, my hips/knees/ankles/feet still are lovely, and freckled, and get stronger every time I (gently) bring them out to play.
I like that my feet can wear pretty shoes. Whether it’s high heels or boots or flats or sneakers or sandals, my feet look good. My feet, whether covered in dust or socks, can walk over 15 kilometres a day, has broken a thousand boards and hit a million targets, and they dance every day. I got my toenails painted regularly, and I like that my toes are uneven (yes, my toes are uneven. One foot from my mother’s side, one foot from my father’s side.) because it’s unusual.
I don’t even care that this might sound ridiculous. Because this week, I walked into a meeting that blindsided me and made me doubt in my abilities. I currently have the plague that took down my whole team at work. I finished a book that makes me want to celebrate the things that I might see as flawed. So.
I love my legs. As the song goes, “She got legs. And she knows how to use them.”