(This letter, written to my thighs, echoes Paul's letters in the New Testament, written to churches in particular places. This one is, perhaps, less reverent and certainly less purposeful.)
To my thighs:
The jig is up. For months now, you have been stealing away the calories from so many foods I shouldn't have eaten. Hoarding, though not a crime, is something that needs to be named. So I'm naming it. Calorie-hoarding thighs, I hadn't been able to see the extent of your problem because it was hidden by my expansive, pregnant belly. Looking down, I saw only belly, not thighs. Today, the tables have turned.
Today, on my first day back at yoga, I began to suspect you'd worked out a deal with my taste buds, demanding brownies and M&M's and every dessert I watch Paula Deen make and the Pioneer Woman blog about.
Well, thighs, those days are over. (Not entirely, of course. brownies and M&M's aren't just eye candy.) We can still be friends, you and me, but I'm glad we can be open about your problem.
Salutations and saluations.