sigh. my thighs.

even for someone whose nom de plume is “hot pants,” it’s a sweat lodge in NY these days. the little weather.com icon on my desktop tells me it’s 90 degrees at 5pm. it’s also flashing, which further indicates that even the weather.com people can’t believe how steamy it is (“hey, frankie, get a load of this,” one meteorologist is saying to another. “should we flash it?”). muggins has retreated to the bedroom, where he is alternating reading the “new yorker” with looking out the window and shaking his head sadly. i don’t think he’ll leave the apartment until rosh hashanah.

perhaps it’s because of this hot weather, then, that i am thinking about my thighs. mainly, the fact that i have noticed over the last few weeks that they are rubbing together constantly. i am REALLY unhappy about this. you might say, “come now, hot pants, it’s a zillion degrees out there and everything’s expanding in a most unattractive manner.” and i would say to you, “nerts!” which is my way of telling you that you’re mistaken. i know what this friction is all about – it’s a sign of age. it’s all moving south, and when i say that i don’t mean moving to boca to live in an all-white condo. will i fight it? yes, some. mostly i’m going to ignore, camouflage, and open another 6-pack of oreos.

there. that’s better.

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One response to “sigh. my thighs.

  1. sweet, sweaty little hot pants.
    if you’d move out to s.f., you’d be cool and deflated, thigh-wise. this morning was in the low 50’s when i took master theo fannybrice for his morning dig and ferret hunt. and windy. you’d be in long pants, so you wouldn’t even know it if your thighs were to touch.
    but it’s too true, the body betrays.
    i look down at my hands and wonder who that old lady is typing on my computer. and don’t get me started on the puffs, discoloration, and wrinkles surrounding what used to be a pair of killer blue eyes.
    mother nature is a jealous creature.

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