I have a confession to make: I have a pair of extremely ugly legs.
And, when I say 'ugly', I don't mean cellulite-laden, fats-a-jiggling ugly.
Ok, I admit, I used to have issues over those and wished that I could cut off those pieces of meat that made my legs look meatier than the pork trotters that ostensibly emblazon the butcher's stall front at your neighbourhood market.
Nowadays, I just wish I had back those humongous pieces of meat back, otherwise known as thighs.
Don't get me wrong, my thighs haven't slimmed down a bit. Not sure about whether it has increased in size over the years though. Neither has the cellulite erased its unwanted presence on my thighs.
Instead, what I have that can be mildly passed off as thighs right now are those flabs, with the additional embellishments all over my legs in the form of mottled-coloured skin, bumpy and uneven surfaces, and rashes that wake me up every other night just so that I can scratch that bloody itchy area.
Really, if I had knew that I would get such ugly legs in the future, I would have really appreciated my humongous thighs, at least it boasted a clean, pleasant surface, one without any blemishes, devoid of any disfigurements.
As a child, I witnessed my sister being attacked by that dreaded skin disease, which resulted in her having a pair of legs with mottled patches of scarlet red all over. It was hideous to look at, but I never felt repulsion about it, neither did I give it a second thought.
The first time I knew that I would get ugly legs was when the fortune teller told me straight in the face, that my skin would be attacked by a disease, and I was to be wary and on my toes if any trace of it were to rear its ugly head.
One year later, I was diagnosed with Encezma.
At the peak of the disease, it was really a hideous sight to behold! Parts of my lower limbs were robbed of its natural colour and there would be patches of red all over my legs. Not only that, my skin also lost its smooth texture and surrendered to the formidable rashes that broke out and held it captive. My skin was prisoner to the disease, and brutally tortured at one point in time.
The skin would be scaly dry at times, and horrendously wet with pulse at other times. Most often, the itch was so bad that I would scratch my legs every night until it bleed.
The first sight of red would poke its bud of a head out of my skin and say a cheerful, "Hi!", and yet, I didn't stop scratching. The itch woke me up every single night, and I would stay up in bed scratching my legs, until more rashes broke out, and my legs always bled.
Even though well-meaning parents and relatives would blurt out a simple, "Don't Scratch!", it was a struggle not to. Then, I never listened to those fleeting comments, and continued scratching, bleeding, scratching, bleeding.
My condition got so bad that me parents started nagging me to do something about it. Once, my mother scolded, "You better do something about it, or very soon when the disease spreads, you'll gonna have to cut off your legs!"
That ignited some emotions in me. Up till this point, I've maintained my optimistic outlook on life and always thought, "It's alright, I still have a pair of legs."
Occasionally, I would subject my legs to intense scrutiny, magnifying those scars as I secretly wished that those scars would magically disappear under the heat of my flaming perusal.
My abhorrence and repulsion for those mottled patches was very much evident, and reflected in the hateful gleam in my eyes.
My legs were like an ugly newborn child, regaled with the scrutiny of disapproving glances among relatives and friends, and sometimes someone would let loose a disgusted glance that skimmed across their facial expressions. Occasionally, a sympathetic look would make a guest appearance.
I visited countless doctors in my quest to regain my beautiful legs, cellulite- and fats- ridden. Under medication, my condition took a turn for the better. But, once I stopped the prescription, the condition returned. But, not as savagery and brutal as in its initial pre-medication stage.
You know like in those horror movies, when an epidemic wipes out the entire country, and a heroic saviour finally saves the day, but just as he marches off victoriously swanked in regal armour, the camera zooms in on that one single 'disease-originator' that has been left out while the saviour was battling with the widespread problem... and then the story ends there?
Likewise, after my condition improved, there were still side-effects that mortalized later on, maybe even uglier and more devastating than the disease itself.
After the entire saga, once in a while, I get hit with another horrible disease: low self-esteem. Because I have a pair of hideous-looking legs, that means there is an unwritten rule of 'No pants above knee level', which means that I'm probably destined to wear jeans and black working pants for my entire life.
Once I wore a three-quarters pants, and a well-meaning friend quipped that my scars could be seen. I can't say for sure that the black inky orbs otherwise known as laser, watchful eyes of the public doesn't bother me when I walk out the front door wearing pants that make the scars on my legs visible. It may all be a figment or my imagination, or maybe those orbs are really trained on my mottled scars.
Another time, I wore a pair of ankle socks and my classmate approached me to ask if I had fell down, hence 'the bruises'. I was distressed by the unwanted attention, and of course I lied that, "Yes, I had fell down, and the scars would recover in no time."
Nowadays I've adopted a habit of looking at people's legs everywhere I go. If I were to see a pair of really huge and fat legs, but with a smooth texture, I would think to myself, "Her legs are really beautiful, how nice if I could have legs like hers..."
Is this what they call, "You never know what you've got, until you've lost it?" So, please, this is my plea to all girls out there. You may have thunder thighs, or cellulite-infested legs, but they are beautiful nonetheless! Believe me, I've since stopped harping on my thunder thighs. The '5-cents' and '10-cents' all over my legs just distract me and take up too much of my attention!
Fiona Xie once said, "Because it's for charity, I will donate all my pairs of shoes, all I need are my two feet."
Up till now, I consider myself lucky. At least I still have my legs. I've seen people who have the same disease as me and they've not been so fortunate. The disease can be really cruel!
Once, I saw this girl on the street and she had this mottled patch on her neck, it was huge and the colour of scarlet red, and it almost spread up to her face.
Also, my sister says that her pretty teacher is single up till this date, because she has been infected with the same type of disease and it's a horrible sight to behold (her condition is worse than mine according to my sis), hence rumour is that it scared off all potential suitors.
Really, no matter how cheesy that sounds, I thank God for being magnanimous with me while I've been inflicted with this disease. I know it will be a slow, life-long battle, but I'm willing to continue the fight.
At least it's a battle half won.
