I blame my mother.

Like millions -no, zillions- of women in this world, I have body issues. In fact, I hate my thighs, and for this self-loathing, hatred of my lower regions, I blame my mother. It's all her damn fault.
It's also sinking in, that perhaps, I drink too much. Not because I'm having problems with alcohol or an addiction, it's because I think I'm getting beer thighs. "Beer thighs?" you ask. Yes, I say, beer thighs. You see, I don't gain fat in my mid-section, it all goes to my ass and thighs; I have junk in my trunk. Honestly, my cute tummy is all that is keeping me from drinking a gallon of Clorox today. But that's a different kind of drinking problem.
I went shopping this afternoon. It did not go well.
I walk, yoga, and exercise but it seems that in my old age, beer wants to cling to my bottom half. And those pesky mirrors at the Old Navy couldn't possibly be lying to me. All I went in for was some new yoga pants. It should not have led to thoughts of liposuction with a vacuum cleaner.
It's been said to me that the jiggle in my wiggle is hereditary, and my proof is my little sister. Sis is a mere fifteen-years-old and already is getting her jiggle. And she's a thin runner. And she’s fucking 5'10" tall (compared to my 5'1", she's Amazonian). Guess I was wading at the shallow end of the gene pool.
Regardless, we blame our mom for the jiggle. It's Mom's fault that shimmy-ing out of my jeans in a dressing room at Old Navy led me to be a sobbing mess of a girl. It's her fault that I want liposuction before I'm thirty. IT'S ALL HER DAMN FAULT.
Two years ago I complained to a friend, "It doesn't make sense that no matter how skinny and fit I get, I still have cellulite." Friend's response, "Yeah, I never got that about you either."
Believe it or not, we're still friends.
Eh, I'm off to yoga. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Maybe I'll go buy on of those Dyson vacuums while I'm out...