Kettle Crest Range 2017, cr. David Moskowitz

Kettle Crest Range 2017, cr. David Moskowitz

these quads are boss bitches, for real.

these quads are also sometimes difficult for me to accept; though most of the time I’ve learned to love them. as a young ballerina, I was told they were too big to create the aesthetically lean, long lines expected of a serious dancer. when I switched from high-altitude load humping to ultra distance running my body shaved off every extra piece of bulky muscle it could - my quads remained stubbornly stout. I’ve carried hatred for their thickness and only recently, and through a serious process of learning to tolerate, accept, then love, have begun to celebrate them.

these are the thighs between which Rumi sticks her head when she’s scared. these are the same fleshy ribbons my lovers crave wrapped around their bodies; the ones every one of them has fetishized, coasting gnarled hands over their deceptively-smooth and scarred surface. my massage therapist calls these gleaming pistons my marble columns for they are certainly strong enough to hold up the roof of the Pantheon.

these are the quads that shook as they fired my legs straight in the top step of my etrier on my first aid lead. these are the legs I trusted to carry me through twenty-six solo, unsupported mountain ultras. these are the quads that helped me squat steadily for four and a half hours while I pushed my perfect Rumi into the world on my bedroom floor; the legs that were so resilient that after that final push at the end of twenty-seven hours of active labor they still allowed me to catch my emerging babe and stand with her in my arms at ten seconds old slippery, bloody, and perfect. 

this right leg in particular endured sixteen stitches to remove a cancerous lesion when I was twenty-one. these are the knees that forced themselves into the balls of my first would-be rapist, a varsity football player at my high school, when I was a flat-chested fourteen year old then again into the balls of my second would-be rapist, a celebrated Himalayan guide, at the age of twenty-two.

tattooed, stretch-marked, bulbous, unevenly-tanned, blessedly hairy: thank you, beautiful thighs.

who said thin women have no use for body positivity?

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