My husband’s calves are the size of a Sunday roast.
He comes from a long line of large-legged people. They’re long, they’re sturdy. His father is large legged, his brother is large legged, and his mother? Her legs appear to be one solid bit from calf to foot, a feature known colloquially as a “cankle”.
You may safely conclude from this description that his mother and I are not close.
You may also conclude that the size of Willie’s calves have been the subject of many conversations.
What? You don’t talk about body parts?
“If we were flying over the Andes, and the plane went down –“
“Oh, God,” Willie sighs. “This isn’t the we-eat-your-calves-first conversation again, is it?”
“No! No! Of course not!”
It is. “But I’m just thinking that in the future we may want to pack snacks when we fly. You know, things like carrots and onions and potatoes, maybe packets of salt and pepper –“
“There might be something wrong with you.”
He doesn’t mean it.
There’s also my theory on the nomadic nature of his ancestors.
Willie sighs heavily. It is clear that he suffers. “Yes?”
“Where do you think your people were from?”
“No, I mean, like, don’t you think hundreds of thousands of years ago your people were bounding up and down mountain sides, locking their legs around the necks of saber-toothed Big Horn Sheep or something?”
“Or the necks of their wives.” He pauses, feeling this needs softening. "Ha ha," he adds.
He keeds, this one.
We all have our physical distinctions. I, for example, seem to have a flat spot on the back of my head. Sure it’s strange, but it’s also handy for sleeping on the floor. My mother denies that she strapped me to a board as an infant, but she’s a shifty one. I have my suspicions.
Flat head. Monster calves.
Ah. Life’s rich pageantry.
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