My thighs, I could suffocate a man with these babies

I’m not normally one to complain about parts of my body, you won’t find me lining up for botox the moment crevasses start appearing in my face, but my thighs are one area that do provoke some feelings of animosity within me. Although I’m one of the lucky few with PCOS who don’t have a weight problem (I know, I know, I’m a bitch), I do have the typical PCOS pattern of weight distribution and that means, among other things, a bit of thunder in the thighs.

I’d like to say that the size of my thighs is due to having magnificent quads, a la Tina Turner, but in reality they are two not so subtle fat storage devices that like to get jiggy with it every time I pound the pavement. You know that scene from the Simpson’s episode where Dr Hibbert pokes Homer’s stomach and times with a stop watch how long his blubber takes to stop moving, well…. you know where this is going.

Consequently, despite my otherwise trim frame, my thighs have not seen sunlight since 1989. And ever since my instruments of walking started doing involuntary chicken leg impersonations, my much loved houndstooth mini skirt has not seen the light of day either.

For the thin cyster with thunder thighs, the greatest challenge is to find clothing that can accommodate a small waist and her generously proportioned proportions stealing the lime light below it. In a world where adult clothes appear to be modeled on the physique of pre-pubescent girls, the task of finding nice fitting clothes is a challenge to any woman with hips, let alone women with a body affected by PCOS.

My thighs know all too well the sensation of being squeezed into an unaccommodating pair of jeans and stretching the fabric of a skirt I am determined to make “work” within an inch of its life. One thing my thighs don’t know too well, however, is acceptance.

I try not to lay the finger of blame regarding the animosity I feel towards my thighs at PCOS, but instead direct my frustrations towards a world that would rather my low ride love handles did not exist. Even Dove, who bang on about “real beauty”, still want you to fix up your ungodly thighs with their cellulite firming cream and other body firming lotions. Dove, how am I meant to except myself “as I am”, which you implore me to do, when you imply real beauty knows no cellulite? I say real real beauty knows no beauty products! As Rebecca Traister points out in her article on Dove’s real beauty campaign, all children on God’s earth have cellulite.

The road to acceptance begins, I’ve found, when you realize that your thighs aint ever gonna shrink, just because you love those jeans. Love doesn’t conquer all, after all. You just have to accept the fact that PCOS equals an extra serving in the thighs and the inherent risk that one day while walking down the street some asshole will holla in his best Jerry Lee Lewis voice “there’s a whole lotta shakin’ goin on!” while pointing in the general direction of your thundering thighs.

So, don’t be fakin’. If there is one, and only one upside to all this, apart from the fact that a lil’ extra weight on your thighs does your health no harm (provided this is not accompanied by a lot of extra weight on the torso), if I were to ever become stranded without food and water, I know my PCOS thighs with their extra fat stores will serve me well. In that situation, it’s always the skinny thighed bitches who die first.