When they were eighteen, my legs got their first how-d’ya-do. I thought nothing of it at the time. It happened on an up-escalator, at a Barnes & Noble, in Baton Rouge. I was halfway up the escalator, when the woman behind me caught sight of my legs, which did not yet have an inkling of their allure. Then, with a single diaphragmatic spasm, the adoration catapulted from the woman’s lips, catching both me and my legs off guard. “Whoa! Nice legs!” was all she said. And that was instance number one.

Instance two happened a year later. My legs were walking the Tucson sidewalks, stopping in the shade of here-and-there cafe umbrellas, when a passing girl interrupted her phone call for a double-take in my direction. “Whoa-hoa!” she said, nearly bumping another mid-morning shopper. “Nice legs!” She returned to her call and went on her way.

Had I paused for just one moment—considered these signs for just one second—I might today be standing calf-to-calf with the great leg models of my generation—visionaries like Arturo Valentini, Chuck Dempsey, and Andrew “Quads” McKenzie.

But I ignored the signs. I went to college. I pursued writing—for its abundance of headaches and ulcers and spontaneous weeping. I started a blog. This is it.

I wonder if Quads McKenzie gets spontaneous weeps, too.


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