My thighs were stolen from me during the night of August 3rd a few
years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke
up with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked
oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been
wholly, if imperfectly, mine for years? Whose thighs were these? What
happened to mine?
I spent the entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at
pools and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed. I
became obsessed. I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that
turns to bumps in the night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned
myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.
Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My
buns were next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to
match my new derriere (although badly attached at least 3 inches lower
than the original) to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now
my rear complemented my legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that
long skirts would stay in fashion.
It was 2 years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One
morning while fixing my hair, I watched horrified, but fascinated, as
the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the
hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced,
cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a time. Age? Age had nothing
to do with it. Age was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible,
something like maturity...NO, I was being attacked, repeatedly and
without warning.
During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms - female
arms. I studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine
in public nor flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I
held them straight out and did endless circles that would have
tightened my real arms but did nothing for these Silly-Putty
caricatures. In the end, in deepening despair, I gave up my T-shirts.
What could they do to me next?
In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed
particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind
people that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck
disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded
me of. That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the
medical profession by myself.
Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That isn't really
"plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're getting
those replacement parts, don't you? The next time you suspect someone
has had a face "lifted", look again. Was it lifted from you? Check out
those tummy tucks and buttocks raising. Look familiar? Are those your
eyelids on that movie star? I think I finally may have found my
thighs. I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!
[Author unknown]
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