Good day to you all. My name is Calla. I have thunder thighs.
When I was quite a young child, I recall reading a book wherein a young woman was on a diet (said young woman was a dancer) and she only drank massive glasses of what is described as “green gunk” for breakfast. Her father offered her bacon, and she said, “Oh, great, then everyone can start calling me Thunder Thighs.”
I remember my reaction being, “Well, yeah. That’d be amazing. I wish my nickname was Thunder Thighs. That’s the coolest thing to call your thighs ever.” Almost immediately after, I read a Terry Pratchett book wherein the unstoppable Nanny Ogg (a woman who has been married three times and had innumerable children) hangs upside down from a broomstick in a storm by her “thigh muscles of steel”. I remember thinking, “I bet Nanny Ogg has thunder thighs.”
Of course, at a certain point, no matter what utopian homeschooled society you grow up in, at some point somebody is going to explain to you that no, actually, “thunder thighs” is actually supposed to be an insult. A few years later, I learned of the concept of the “thigh gap”, where, uh… yeah, that’s exactly what it sounds like. There’s a gap between your thighs and it’s good and you want one so you can finally be adequate as a human being. Or so I’ve heard.
To me this concept was entirely foreign. Not that I’d never heard of fat-shaming or the notion of society demanding women conform to a certain style of beauty – I had always just assumed that thighs were exempt. They’re thighs. They don’t have to try to to be awe-inspiring, they always are. Foolish of me, I know.
When I hear the phrase “thunder thighs”, I think of the thighs of the Valkyrie. I bet the Valkyrie all have thunder thighs. I bet Wonder Woman has thighs of thunder. I bet if Mother Earth was an anthropomorphized goddess again instead of the planet, I bet she would have the greatest and most thunderous of thighs. And let us not be female specific – Thor definitely has thunder thighs. Zeus is a weenie, and does not. Hephaestus does though, even though his legs don’t really work. (Let’s be real, if Zeus had thunder thighs, Zeus would have sewn Fetus-Dionysus into his thunder thigh instead of his dumb calf.)
When I speak of “thunder thighs”, I do not necessarily speak of large thighs, or muscular thighs. Thunder thighs are simply thighs that do not apologize. They are the thighs of those who realize and revel in the glory that is the thigh.
My own personal thunder thighs jiggle when I walk. They never tan. (I lay out in the sun for four hours once, and they remained a stubborn porcelain white). I have five beauty marks on my right thigh, and three on my left. There are little indented scars on both, from the chicken pox that I contracted very late in life. They are patterned with faint purple veins. Sometimes they chafe when I get too sweaty, but this is merely because they are exhausted from the tremendous responsibility of daily being thunder thighs.
They carry me home on long, long, long walks. They’ve been a seat for romantic partners and friends alike. They’ve always been a perfect little segue from my pelvis to my knees. They’ve closed many a door when my arms were full. They have embraced lovers when mere arms were not enough. They are soft and squishy and warm, like bread just out of the oven. I love my thunder thighs. I love your thunder thighs. May all your thighs be thunderous.
Calla Wright is a playwright working in Edmonton and Montreal. She has thunder thighs and also some other body parts.
Image: Guinevre Van Seenus by Txema Yeste for Numéro China, 2013