First it was Pippa Middleton’s bottom. Now it’s Alexa Chung‘s thigh gap. “Huh?” you ask. Yes, you heard that right, thigh gap—that cushy spot between the inner thighs located just below the pudenda in women and the ding-dongs in men. It appears that the latest form of teenage hysteria is starving oneself to get the gap and, of course, using social media to instantly bond with like-minded folk.
Like everything else in life, there are the haves and the have-nots. The haves are usually young models, the pre-pubescent, prisoners-of-war and the terminally ill. These individuals are usually so painfully thin that their bodies wisely conserve their limited stores of energy for essential things like breathing. Providing a soft landing between the thighs is not a top survival priority. The have-nots are people like Melissa McCarthy, Beyoncé and Tony Soprano.
Obtaining the thigh gap is the latest obsessive-compulsive activity of (mostly) teenage girls, and of boys who watch Project Runway. For those not already genetically predisposed to the thigh gap, there’s always starvation. Tossing back Red Bulls and skipping meals is the road to salvation. Stay on the path and you will finally see the light— as it comes streaming through the space between your upper thighs. Hallelujah!
Feeling reborn, you’ll stroll down the street, the sun radiating through that glorious space between your legs. All the townsfolk will stop and stare, solemnly nodding their heads and tipping their hats in admiration as you pass. You’ll be popular with boys and envied by girls. At the mall, every toothpick pant you try on will look, like, sooo amazing on you. Everything that is now hard in your life—figuring out who you are and what the point of your life is—is going to be easy. That’s the magic of the thigh gap. It’s like being a wizard. You’ll have a secret power that will make all your wishes come true.
And, once you’ve achieved your thigh gap, might there be other parts that need to be erased? You know how when you wear a sleeveless top, there’s this pooch of skin right there next to your armpit. It doesn’t do anything. It just hangs there. That’s gotta go, don’t you think? And what about when you swivel your neck and one side gets all wrinkly. Gross! Neck fat be gone! Now look at your hands. Squeeze your fingers together. Gap or no gap? Uh huh. You know what to do girl.
Hey, what’s with the disappearing act? Isn’t life hard enough without walking around all woozy with low blood sugar because you’re living off of a teaspoon of mustard every couple of days? Is whittling our bodies down to toothpick pant size, (even if it is in neon mango), the best use of our courage and willpower? And at 45, when all your bones are crumbling with osteoporosis and can’t hold you up anymore because you starved yourself for years, what then? Hashtags that say #snappedmywristagain or #anotherbustedhip or #lostanother2inchesofspinetoday?
Mind the gap, girls.
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