Tag: memoirs

The Seam-Splitters

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, UncategorizedLeave a comment
I've nicknamed my thighs the seam splitters....
I’ve nicknamed my thighs the seam splitters….

I’ve nick-named my thighs “the seam-splitters.”

Arguably, it’s not a very flattering nickname, and I’m sure you’re wondering why a young woman would want to give such a self-effacing and school-playground-teasing nickname to a part of her body. Or, perhaps you’re saying to me, “common, your thighs aren’t thaaaat big.”

No, really. They are. Just ask my wounded pants…

Right now there are 3 pairs of jeans draped over a wicker armchair in my bedroom, each a victim of the seam-splitters. One pair just returned from a tailor who painstaking reconstructed the upper legs with patches, as if the jean were an ancient, priceless Athenian terra cotta vase. The other two are awaiting the same treatment, though they are more likely destined for the trash.

None of these victims have seen more than a year of action, and yet, despite their youth, there they lay, the stitching along the inner thighs torn asunder, split and worn away — jeans in their prime, fatally maimed in the name of fashion.

I know the distressed/patched/custom look is always chic, but still....
I know the distressed/patched/custom look is always chic, but still….

It’s a fate I prepare myself for every time I go shopping: the jeans I buy will split along the inner thighs.  I’ve come to think of jeans as if they are pantyhose: not quite single use, but I shouldn’t get too attached —  it’s only a matter of time before “tricks of the trade,”  like applied clear nail polish or hairspray fail and the devastating run wins, rendering them unwearable.

I’ve learned to spot all the signs that a tear is pending, that the next wear will probably be my last. If I do find a winning pair, they get set aside as “special occasion” jeans. Sometimes, I just buy two right up front.

In high school, I wrote an essay for my AP English class entitled: I Run on Diesel. I was, of course, referring to the Italian denim brand that finally offered me a cut of jeans that seemed to accommodate what my father so kindly referred to as my “thunder thighs.” If there’s nothing else to take away from this look back on my teen years, its that my battle to find well-fitting, properly-enforced leg-wear has been lifelong…

What is a relatively new phenomenon is acceptance. This is just how I’m built. We all have those body areas that give us grief and make us self conscious. For most of my life, that area was my thighs.  For years, I attacked fitness routines and diets promising trimmer legs. It was a mean twist of irony when, as I got fitter, my legs packed on muscle, so instead of shrinking, they got bigger. When I was a competitive athlete, my thunder thighs were an asset. Now that I’m retired, my main goal at the gym is to keep my thighs in seam-splitting shape.

Jeans, be warned.

I’ve learned to ❤ my thunder thighs, aka “The Seam Splitters”

The Useless Things We Do for Love…or Lust

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, Love, relationshipsLeave a comment

It was a long morning of meetings and by mid-afternoon, I was in need of a pick-me-up. I ran out of the office building and trekked half a mile to a teashop that steeps me in exquisite, antioxidant-rich, caffeinated refreshment.

“I’ll take a samurai chai mate, very slightly sweetened with German rock crystal sugar, please,” I said to the burly, blond-haired, sweet-faced guy behind the counter. With his bulk — he was somewhere between a body-builder and a swimmer — he embodied the proverbial elephant in the China shop.

Buying $40 worth of tea and bending over backwards are the least inconvienient things I'd done to get closer to a boy

We chatted while he rummaged through the canisters of tea leaves, carefully pulling together my requested blend. He was cute (think a blond Josh Hartnett), and we shared mutual tastes for morning cups of hearty black teas and afternoons helped by crisp green teas. We were both envisioning our future shared kitchen cabinet chock-full o’ tea. As he measured and poured my cup, he insisted that he teach me about matcha — he was about to have a cup and wanted to share it with me.

15 minutes later I was walking back to work with my mate chai in one hand and $40 worth of green tea in my purse. If only this was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done for a boy…

Joining the jazz band in middle school, joining the film club in high school, adding a Philosophy major to my Economics major in college, learning to ride a bike, traveling to Brooklyn, eating a steak when I’m a vegetarian — there are few inconvenient things I haven’t done while attempting to get closer to a good-looking fella. These things have frequently resulted in personal injury (bike crashes) and always cost me time (Thursday afternoons for film “discussions”) and money (a new amp for my electric violin) but rarely achieved their goal — get the guy.

I became a joint major in Economics and Philosophy to win over Jacob. The West Coast-raised upper-classman and I loved talking about biking/hiking trails and Plato to such a degree that our French professor proclaimed we went together “like peanut butter and chocolate.” Alas, Jacob was allergic to peanuts… and eventually, to me.

I don’t know if my tea purchase will result in a date or go the route of Jacob and my Econ-Philo major.  In the very least, my matcha consumption will increase my metabolism and reduce my risk of cancer. It seems that for once, an act made in the name of lust might finally prove fruitful.

Unlike my attempt at learning to ride a bike, buying green tea to impress a boy will prove good for my health

Easily Transitions from Asolos to Manolos

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, fashion, insights/observations2 Comments
A book bought to spot-read for inspiration

Sitting next to my computer is a book called “Not Quite What I was Planning: 6 Word Memoirs by Famous and Obscure Writers.” I bought it to spot read at will — the 6-word memoirs would be lessons in wit and brevity. Indeed, the minimalist writings inspired me to conjure my own 6-word autobiographies…

  • Always makes it work… usually.
  • Frequently found herself lost abroad.
  • Played hard, earned many bruises.
  • Saved old girlfriends, discarded new boyfriends.
  • Easily transitions from Asolos to Manolos.

Of the above, the last is probably the best distillation of Kathleen anyone could ever write — if I have a gravestone, I wouldn’t object to that becoming my epitaph. Easily transitions from Asolos to Manolos, from clunky hiking boots to dainty stilettos, from rough n’ tumble outdoors-woman to uptown girl…

I was probably running late, but there’s always time to take one last look in the mirror. The reflection was of the girl people are used to seeing — thoughtfully made-up and sharply dressed in clothes culled from Saks 5th Avenue and trips overseas. This was the Kathleen my date was going to get, and had he, or anyone else, seen me an hour earlier, they would have thought my transformation to be the stuff of fairytale musicals.

Me in summary: Easily transitions from Asolo hiking boots to designer heels.

An hour before the eyeliner and gardenia lipstick, before the tamed curls and gold earrings, before the Diane Von Furstenberg dress and red patent high heels, I was make-up-less, except for the spf 15 and the smudge of dirt on my chin. The old t-shirt and Nike spandex I sported were covered in wood-shavings and top soil, and tufts of sod hung from the soles of my ankle-high Asolo hiking boots. Thorn pricks left bloody splotches on my calves and sweat clung to my forearms. I had spent the day hauling and laying down 25 fifty-pound bags of woodchips and boy, did I look it.

I never really think of myself as beautiful, but caked in mud, muscles toned from exertion of countless treks uphill with 100-lb loads, hair tousled underneath a dingy Yankees cap, I felt gorgeous. There was no one to judge me and no bell-curve of tall, busty blonds to grade me against. There was no need to be self-consciousness. The flush in my cheeks, the rose in my lips, and the light in my eyes were put there by the fresh air and physical exertion — not by a brush and a pancake of pressed powder. I was fit, invigorated, living, breathing, unmediated Me. What could be more beautiful than that?

I might have looked a lot like pigpen, but I felt beautiful. Lucky for my date, I clean up okay too.

When I met my date for dinner, he gave me a kiss on my cheek and told me I looked “lovely.”

“Thanks. I clean-up well.”

He repeated it back to me under his breath and it took a minute to process before he laughed and helped me with my coat. Little did he know…