I have to whisper.
My thighs are onto me.
For years we have had an amicable-enough agreement: I will continue feeding them raw cookie dough, and they will do their best not to make a ruckus when we walk down the street. But the jig is up. They've noticed that I've been trying to break up their happy union.
The decision to declare war on my thighs happened on an unsuspecting Tuesday morning at the gym. I was engaged in my normal routine of huffing and puffing along on the treadmill, some iTunes jams in my ear, with a little spring in my step, when I noticed her. Two treadmills down. A vision of fitness, running at breakneck speed in a cute Lululemon outfit. Her hair was perfectly out of place, and she was glowing rather than sweating. It was then I caught a glance of myself in a side mirror, and noticed I had on mismatched socks and grape jelly on my sleeve. Ms. Skinny Minny down the way looked like she'd just jogged out of the pages of Today's Athlete, and I looked like someone who could benefit from long-term quarantine care.
All of that I could live with, or at least shrug off. But then I noticed her legs. Both of them.
From that moment on, I was a woman on a mission.
In one fell swoop, I went from wanting to lose a few pounds to hating my stuck-together thighs, calves, and life. No longer was I fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14); instead, I was disappointed in my divine design. If only I had Ms. Skinny Minny's legs! I would then have the life, look, and love I was supposed to have. Despite never having had a conversation with this woman, regardless of not knowing her name, her favorite movie, or how she takes her coffee, I wanted to be her. If envy makes the bones rot (Proverbs 14:30), I was surely decomposing.