Mountain Climber Legs

If there were no fatphobia
I would be a calf model
My jutting gastrocnemius muscles glistening as they pulsate down the dewy asphalt of an Adidas ad
They are voluminous, carved from stone, a true astonishment of shapely mass
My mother called them mountain climber legs
An inheritance from the Dutch
Strong and sturdy, as good as money
I picture my ancestors, women infinitely trudging upwards, stopped only to squat next to waterfalls and scrub their necks furiously
There are few waterfalls in the Netherlands, and even fewer mountains
(I’ve just googled, and there are no mountains in the Netherlands)
Yet the legend of these mountain climbers lives on
My imagination is as vast and expansive as my calves, it carries me there

I have cost myself thirty summers thinking about my calves
The bulge of them was shameful, protruding when I ran, pendulous when I rested
I’ve tried to cover them, hide them under drapery, disguise them as merely ankles that become knees
In the winter they are mysterious, foreboding things
But in summer they sweat themselves into knowing
I must know them, they drip
I watched my mother’s calves shrink to sinew, flattened, two puddles making beds for bones and I thought of mine doing the same from age, or cancer
And then I missed them

I missed them
I missed the mountains
This year, I bought myself a pair of shorts and

I am taken by how wide I can be.