Stolen

 

 


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
complimented 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
myupper 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 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.