“I don’t have a thigh gap.” That is what comes pouring out of my mouth. What the hell, Sena? Really. Instantly horrified. I’m better than this. Just give me ten minutes to think of something sassy and intelligent to say. My legs haven’t bothered me before; I’ve never coveted stick-thin, shapeless legs. Fair play to those women with them. But I’m good with a bit of chunk on my southern bones. And while it’s true, my thighs meet in the middle, they’ve saved my iPhone more times than I can count, making them worthwhile. “Who cares if you don’t have a thigh gap?” He replies gruffly. Eyes turn
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