When I was much younger, I dated a young man who was a "leg man". Good thing, because I was not endowed with a chest to inspire much adoration. His name was Lance (and yes, the first time I went out with him was because he had such a cool name and California blond hair). Despite my worries that my legs were too white, too skinny, too flabby, etc., Lance thought they were, in today's parlance, "hot".
And because he admired my legs, I've always kind of thought of them as my best feature.
But something happened on the way to 50. It turns out that riding my bike, geocaching through briars and poison ivy, and generally living life to the fullest leaves many marks. I had JUST gotten to where they were starting to look less . . . um . . . scarred and torn up. I could shave them without tearing chunks away from healing zones.
And then I wrecked my bike today. I was riding down a path that did a 90 degree turn and I wasn't ready. I had slowed down, so instead of a colossal spectacular, it was a slow crash to the ground. I ALMOST stayed on my feet, but at the last, I was overbalanced and went over on the right. My son was behind me and just about had a heart attack. A man in a silver convertible stopped and asked if we needed help. Very kind, but I felt really stupid.
I was going so slow it didn't break the skin (yay for my elbow and shoulder) and I was wearing my helmet (yay for my brains), but I can definitely see some purple zones popping up. Sigh.
Ah well ... at least we had a great bike ride before that, and found two geocaches. SUCCESS!
Much more importantly, our dear friends are visiting from Austria, and my father arrives to visit on Thursday. I might not be around for a couple of days. Well, of course I'll be HERE, but I might not on my blog.