American Thighs Read Online Free PDF Page B

here she is—telling me not only WAS she young—but she STILL FEELS THAT WAY. I could scarcely breathe—it gave me an attack of claustrophobia. Now I saw her as a young person trapped in the body of an old woman and she seemed to me to be like someone sentenced to life in prison without parole—life was going on as usual all around her, but she could not get out of that wrecked cage of a body to which she’d been consigned forever.
    Like The Man in the Iron Mask —only she was The Woman in the Flabby Body—just as horrifying a fate, in my opinion. Actually worse. At least nobody but the prison staff ever SAW the Man in the Iron Mask—my Mother, on the other hand, had to go out every day in public and be SEEN—IN THAT TERRIBLE BODY—IN THOSE AWFUL OLD LADY CLOTHES—and here she is telling me that she still FEELS like she’s a teenager. Oh, the horror!
    I imagine if I myself had to even walk out in the front YARD in that housedress, with those shoes and that hair—in that BODY—well, I would just rather be dead and by the quickest, most private means possible—and then, if you would, please, just cremate the wretched remains on the spot.
    Self-satisfied in my all-consuming Teenage Smug, I somehow subconsciously believed that I personally would not EVER age, that MY skin would remain sleek and taut around my ever-lean frame, that MY muscles would always promptly obey whatever command my ever-sharp brain issued and that MY perky tits and ass would ever BE perky. I didn’t imagine that the MOM felt any sense of grief or loss at her own condition because, in my mind, it had not changed. It wasn’t like she ever once HAD anything like my own exquisite perfection and had somehow allowed it to deteriorate—to me, she’d always BEEN just as she was NOW. “When you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose”—seemed apropos.
    On the other hand, I had another parent—my in-house representative of the Doting and Delightfuls (DAD), who always seemed handsome and dashing to me—and so that got me to thinking—how did this old lady snag such a PRIZE? He didn’t strike me as having a Granny Complex, and yet here he was, blissfully wedded to the hag I saw at the sink. Hmmmm.
    And so to the old family albums I went, and for the first time, I actually SAW the people in the photos that did not contain ME. At any past perusals, any photos lacking my graciouspresence were thumbed past quickly—blah, blah, blah, crowd noise, crowd noise, crowd noise—ahhh—here we are now—ME, ME, ME!
    Suddenly, the young GIRL playing with her dog, trying on a funny hat, making faces for the camera, skiing, sailing, riding horses, smiling ear-to-ear—that young GIRL became real to me. And she was followed closely by the young WOMAN—dressed to kill, makeup and hair perfect, posing with one handsome young man after another, until finally there was just One Handsome Young Man over and over in the photos—and I easily recognized HIM as my very own darlin’ Daddy. And there he was, in the Stork Club in New York City—grinning, with his arm around that beautiful young woman. And there he was, bundled up in his Navy peacoat and watch cap, playing in the blinding snow with that same radiant young woman. And there he was, beaming an impossibly broad grin, with his new bride—that same gorgeous young woman—the MOM.
    Oh. My. God. I now KNEW how she got him…MOM was HOT.
    Mom was hot. Mom was hot. MOM! WAS! HOT! Holy shit! Ho-ly SHIT! I’m talking MOM here—do you understand me? MOM! My MOM—THAT one over there—frump woman, the cook, the housekeeper, the rule-maker, killer-of-all-teenage-joy—MOM—was NOT ALWAYS a Mere Ordinary Mortal—she USED TO BE HOT!
    And that’s kinda sorta when I knew—if it happened toher—it could happen to me. And isn’t Karma just the biggest bitch in