Human Variation

I saw a woman  walking down the street ahead of me the other day and it must have been glare off a car window or something, but bright light shone through between her legs. Yes, between her thighs right up at the crotch. She was skinny, yes, and wide-slung, and she could have carried a tennis ball there if she wanted to.
Human bodies are so various, so infinite in their permutations. That area on me would never allow the light of day to penetrate, not even when I was a little girl. My legs have always rubbed together--noisily in corduroys or patterned tights, stickily in warm weather, swimsuit or skirt, chafingly on the hottest days. My jeans wear out there on the inseam long before the knees give out.
And now as the middle-aged sag begins its slow downward pull, my collarbone becomes more prominent, my ribs above my breasts stick out and my thighs take on the excess. Like candle wax it all seems to melt and flow downward. The outer thighs, too, sproing out on each side with thick wodges of extra flesh. From where? I'm the same weight as before. Yes, wodges troweled on from some unknown fat source. I know, wodge is not a word. But that's only because Shakespeare didn't have this problem. If he had, we'd have a word for it already, and it wouldn't be up to me to make one up.
By the way, not envious of skinny women. They have their own challenges. But they'll have to write their own blog about those.