my jumps are high. they always have been.
my ballet teacher pointed out that my leg muscles were twitching while executing extensions because I was pushing them, and myself, to be better.
growing up until probably three years ago, despite how many times my mom told me I had beautiful legs and knowing all the amazing things I knew my legs could do, I hated them. like really hated them (so much, I lived in skirts and dresses and didn't start wearing pants until last year).
my legs have always been so strong (read: so very muscular), I always got made fun of for them because they didn't ever appear feminine enough ("tree trunks" from a boyfriend, after dancing for 10 hours straight while he stood against the wall, is probably the most scathing).
I always hear old women say that good legs are the last thing to go, and finally, I'm beginning to realize that must be true.
I'm 32 years old, and my legs are still defying the same gravity they have always defied. And in many ways, my body is capable of doing more things than it ever has before.
but these legs have been the very last thing I've been okay with.
insecurities never make much sense-- I know that. it's why when I was nineteen, I pierced my nose. I put a gigantic hoop through it, wore it that way for years, because I hated my nose so much, I wanted to draw my own attention to it. I wanted to look right at it, right away, every time I looked in the mirror. and it worked. when I stopped caring, I took out my nose ring, and now I'm totally cool with my nose.
one of my writing mentors always says to pay attention to the parts of your work that make people uncomfortable because that could be what you're doing right.
and hell if that isn't a universal truth.