Dudes...

...I don't care how nice a guy says my boobs are, there is simply no velvet to put on the following hammer, "You have Olive Oyl legs."

Yep, that's what I just heard from one who hath perused the landscape that is my body.

Oh sure, it was qualified with a ridiculous, "...but remember, I love A, B, and C." Well, if A, B and C are approaching on Olive Oyl legs, they lack the confidence that they need with which to fully utilize their charms, whatever they may be.

I suppose there's a rationale behind the thinking of men but I'll be damned if I can figure it out. I could be so stupid as to verbally disparage a part of a man of which he is fond, proud and assured. But I'm smart enough to know that I don't want mind games to enter any lovemaking that I might be enjoying at the time.

Unfortunately, that's a rather positive outlook on a relatively bleak situation. While I admit to some seriously passionate kissing tournaments, actual love making is as rare as is a lovely day in Chicago. It's probably just as good, I like kissing and the unknown horizontal bop is always better than it's twin, the known horizontal bop.

You know, it mightn't be so bad if it weren't for the Olive Oyl magnet on the fridge. She mocks me over and over again, daily as I reach for the half and half. My normally quiet and peaceful early morning has been usurped. The dawn isn't as sweet as it could be today because I have Olive Oyl legs.

How does one make a positive out of THAT?