I've Got Legs

Could I learn how to use them?

13-year-old me in Central Park, 24-year-old me on a lunch break, 10-year-old me at Brighton Beach

After I graduated from college and returned home to New York City, on fairer days, I would walk a couple of blocks from my job in the Film Center Building over to National Studios to meet my best friend for lunch. Romy was a broadcast designer at the young and fast-rising MTV. In that building, we often took for granted our proximity to the dizzying array of global pop and rock stars passing us in the narrow halls. We’d bolt past A-listers to steal 30 minutes together, snorting the sooty air wafting over from the Port Authority, gulping down a $1 bowl of egg drop soup–with free crispy noodles on the side.

One bright day in 1988, we charged out of the paintbox room like caged animals released into the wild just as a few casually dressed musicians stepped into our path. When Romy stopped short and stood sideways to allow them to pass, I found myself up close and personal with one gentleman. Though I instantly sensed his gravitas, I couldn’t quickly place the handsome, clean-shaven smile, those soulful eyes. In my thick-wedged shoes, I towered over him at roughly six-foot-three. He looked me up and down appreciatively and, in a Liverpool accent, declared:

“Yer a tawl drink uh woh-tuh!”

As his words hung in the air between us, sudden recognition jolted through me. Flushed and flattered, I rushed the exit, fully aware of George Harrison’s warm scrutiny of my leggy, lengthy stride. I very much enjoy a little tall-girl recognition…

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In elementary school, I yearned to become a classical ballerina. And though I trained under a demanding (yet second-rate) Ballet Russe defector in Brooklyn, I never managed to develop the strength and flexibility required of the discipline. While my classmates could rotate their tiny hips in a perfect turnout, spin a blur of pirouettes, and point a high-arched foot in any direction, my inelastic tendons would not abide. From hip to toe, my scrawny stems were non-compliant, no matter how desperately I begged them to yield. I felt cursed when, at an audition for a more elite school in Manhattan, a haughty French doyenne examined my feet and summarily rejected me, proclaiming: “Yu weel be seex feet tawl! Too tawl!” She wasn’t wrong.

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Most of my height can be attributed to the length of my tibias, fibulae, and femurs. For the duration of what I recall as a particularly awkward and brutal puberty, my legs were significantly more coltish than shapely, more knock-kneed than attractively aligned. It didn’t help my self-esteem (or style cred) that, for years, my mother sewed ribbons along the hems of my favorite pair of jeans as I continually shot upward, never outward. Some future archaeologist would be able to determine my age by counting the layers of embroidered butterflies and psychedelic flowers arranged like so many strata, built up over millennia.

It took a while before I dared (dared!) to consider the remote possibility that my gams could be used to my advantage. It helped that when I needed to find a way to fit in athletically in high school, I chose volleyball. The sport suited me. My height was a clear advantage, and it didn’t take much initial effort to be a standout. I discovered that a little hop enabled me to block all kinds of passes. My confidence grew with each small success, and I was motivated to see whether I could fulfill this “potential” my coach (and my mother) kept nagging me about. I found that a few well-timed steps and an explosive jump would propel me high enough above the net to give me a real chance to slam the ball satisfyingly at the feet of the opposing team. Not that I always connected.

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Though what I demanded from my legs and what I’ve learned to accept are two slightly different things, I’m generally happy with how well they have served me. To date, I have suffered few leg-related injuries, and I have yet to require replacement parts or surgical interventions of any kind. My shins are dotted with a constellation of purplish scars that hold the memories of moving too quickly around the corner of a bed frame, or slipping off a spiky Schwinn bike pedal. My Instagram feed overwhelms my vanity vulnerabilities, trying to convince me that a monthly subscription to Jane Seymour’s Body Firm Crepe Erase will plump my dehydrated epidermis, restoring its youthful shimmer. I tried it. It didn’t.

If you look at my Pinterest boards, you’d get the misguided impression that I’m constantly working on “mobility” and “increasing my quad strength by lifting heavy” — solid longevity goals, for sure. However, if you monitored my behavior to determine whether it lines up with said goals, you’d see that the act of collecting those videos, mantras, and images seems to satisfy me way more than actually doing the work. I’m a spectacular liar when lying to myself.

Checking my front split potential earlier this Spring

Every so often, I have the most delicious dreams in which my shockingly limber limbs glide into an easy split. Each time, I wake a little sadder to my reality. For comfort, I reach for my iPad and search on Pinterest for “6 poses to side splits in 28 days,” and scroll the sting away.

Recently, I took up running again, determined to win my age group in an upcoming February 5k. It’s the one activity that has never caused me anything worse than a bruised ego—usually when I convince myself it will be easy to get my groove back, to feel strong, perhaps youthful again. I have about eight weeks to train. I’ll probably start tomorrow…