File this one under "Thigh BB's." Brand new pair of sweat pants, brand new. Worn twice. So why does the apex of the inner thighs look like the Wife's beady beads (who, in case she's reading, has nary a single beady bead and I'm thoroughly ashamed of the low attempt to use such imagery for cheap humor)? I'll tell you why: magic. And not even good magic. Bad magic. Bad, bad, bad magic. Doug Henning still trying to score a kid's birthday party bad. Magic is channeling the fat in my body to my inner thighs. What's that you say? I sound like a woman? Listen, I'm as Helen Reddy as the next guy. Hear me roar, dammit. I know why the Caged Bird sings; it's trapped between your thighs, little beak tweating like mad for help.
So what I've done is this: Squat. Not squats as in lunging like a lunatic hoping a knee pops so you don't have to do this again. Squat as in nothing. I'm not trying to spot reduce and I'm damn sure not trying to not eat cider mill doughnuts. Nor have I shaved the thigh bb's off. They'll stay as my shame every step of the half mile I walk in the morning (bumping it to a mile next week) and the mile in the evening (2 next week). The best way to defeat magic is with reality. The reality of thigh bb's is that, yes, they look totally gross but unless I'm sitting there wearing short shorts with my legs wide open (which presents a more disturbing scenario) nobody will know. When the bb's disappear -- and they will disappear, I guarantee you-- no one will know. They'll wonder what that light is, the one shining 'tween my legs. But they won't know of the death of thigh bb's.
They won't know that Doug Henning could not defeat my crotch.
Only I will.
And that's as it should be.