I have been trying hard.
Really freaking hard.
Sooooo hard, that honestly I think I’m getting a headache from trying so hard to keep my mouth shut!
So please don’t remind me that I don’t hate Lululemon. I’m over that they don’t have older ambassadors. I’m over that they don’t have larger sizes. I’m over the off-shore sweatshops and un-environmental clothing and the Ayn Rand marketing of “rational egoism,” and honestly I don’t know what-the-frig that is except yogis don’t like the ego.
I don’t care that their pants are transparent because my classes are finally full of men. Yee-hah, watch me bend over and pay at the door.
I’m even over the anti-Asian intention behind their name, which was chosen because it is so fun to hear people say, “Ru-Ru-Remon.”
As Colbert said, “Hirarious.”
I am even over when the sales clerks say, “You teach yoga? That is so great. I have to let my mom know.”
Oh honey. Don’t stop there. Tell your grandmother. Call AARP.
After all that, here’s the thing that is giving me a bit of a headache these days: I got some bad ass legs.
Yes, I am on the small side but I have big-boned, strong, athletic, earth-shaking, pioneer woman legs. I got the kind of legs that settled the west. They can climb up mountains and ski down the bumps—all day long. I have ridden racehorses in Alabama and waterskied over the lakes in Montana.
I can hold Utkatasana forever. The yoga pose astavakrasana is my b*tch. My legs are large and in charge. I have the kind of legs that a sane person does not mess with.
For years I was embarrassed by the raw power associated with a woman who has bad ass legs. I used to hide my thighs under tunics and dresses. Then I met a man who said, “My God I love your thighs.” He didn’t say “legs,” he said “thighs.”
So I married him.
(That’s a totally true story but he may have been drunk at the time.)
Therefore, when the founder of Lululemon said that the problem with their $98 pants isn’t with the product but with the size of the women who wear them and their big old legs that rub together, I think he is speaking to me.
But now I want to thank Chip Wilson, who will probably never know the pleasure of having a pair of pioneer woman legs wrapped around him. Thank you—and I mean it because you have helped me realize that I am no longer ashamed of my mamma-jamma jambons.
My thighs are big.
It’s true that I cannot wear Wunder Unders ™—not because I’m too heavy, but because I look like a buffalo balancing on a pogo stick.
What’s more, my thighs rub together, in stockings they sound like crickets, and that’s music to my ears.
My version of the Led Zeppelin song goes like this:
“Hey Hey Chip you know, I got some news.
I’m a big-legged woman and I don’t wear your Grooves ™.”
Somebody call the Colbert show—I think I have a gig he’d be interested in.
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Ed: Bryonie Wise