Cursing My Calves


As my toes turn blue in these plummeting temperatures, my mixed emotions for Ed and Christian can instantly unhinge me.

A few weeks ago while meandering through the Cambridgeside Galleria, I stumbled across something that could have kept me oh, so, toasty. Boots. Half of a tiger’s face appeared to be tattooed to each supple suede shaft. Fluffy four-inch cuffs of shearling floated above. I let instinct overtake me.

Bags of presents for other people suddenly scattered around my stocking feet. I was so amped on adrenaline that I barely paid attention to the heel that was protruding from the hole in the back of my polka-dotted sock.

But I hadn’t planned on the problems presented by the freakish size of … of… of my calves. Really, they resemble a crudely carved caveman’s club. Genetics caused it but dancing for decades certainly hasn’t improved things any.

And so once again, I was sabotaged by a zipper.

Grrrrrr. Nothing, not reason, not prayers, not even unprintable muttering, would make that baby budge beyond the barbarian mid-section of my muscle. I clutched at delusions of fitting in for far too long.
The stick-legged saleslady sneered without mercy. She’d witnessed how they’d lured me in from across the river of tourists milling about the mall.

But, in spite of my longings, these knee-highs were just no go’s for me.

And alas, I had to say Sayonara to those Ed Hardy Snowblazers designed by Christian Audigier. Now those piercing pupils merely mock me whenever I stroll by and sigh.


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February 2008
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