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My legs: muscular during my years of playing varsity soccer and basketball and running track; long and sinewy in my later adult life; milky pale every winter yet sunburned often and easily in the summer. They’ve carried me up endless flights of stairs and walked me down the runway at a fashion show. Lately they’ve been swollen, bruised, dotted with needle holes, and—when I dissociate from them as my own—almost grotesquely beautiful for the thick brown striations zigzagging down my calves like a variety of Italian marble.
Those lines are traces of veins that no longer function. A vascular specialist informed me back in November that they weren’t working sufficiently, which is more detrimental to my health than not working at all, surprisingly. And so we’re in the process of destroying them, one by one. Systems reroute, and other veins will pick up the slack. The body is an incredible thing!
With my legs in their current condition, I can’t stop ogling the gams on others: Tyla shimmering like a disco ball in a sequined dress slit up to her waist; ballet dancer Misty Copeland’s graceful choreography in the short film “Flower”; the flocks of women donning Cecilie Bahnsen’s ruffly, bubble-hem minidresses outside the designer’s most recent fashion show in Paris; a Calvin Klein ad featuring Lily Collins, outfitted in just a blazer and sheer black hosiery, sitting with her legs coquettishly twisted and then splayed out on the ground. Collins’s gaze is strong, but it’s her legs that make this power pose. There are also my favorite fitness instructor’s legs: sturdy, muscular, reliable limbs that obey on command, legs that don’t let her down. Everyone has better legs than I these days, simply for their ability to flaunt them.
I’ve been reluctant to write about my ongoing lower-body hang-up because I didn’t want to cast it as a revelation about my condition. I haven’t shared my monthslong treatments on social media, mostly because those sorts of public disclosures aren’t really my style. But also I know that my situation could be much worse. For once in my life, I’m actually unbothered by New York’s cold winter months, when going bare-legged isn’t even a question. And it turns out the compression stockings I’ve had to wear under my clothes for weeks at a time are as warm as my Heattech layers. I’ve even had fun finding new ways to make sweatpants look chic or styling my Adidas track pants with Kallmeyer blazers and other business-up-top options. And on the occasions that I do wear a skirt or dress—midi to longer lengths—my tall, faux-croc Dôen boots have become my reliable slip-ons.
Dressing adaptations aside, I’m mostly grateful that this diagnosis wasn’t as grave as it could have been. I’m at the stage in my life when more and more of my friends are waiting on biopsy results or removing cysts, lipomas, fibroids, and other curious little surprises that suddenly turn up. One morning, you’re perfectly fine. Then the next you notice something while showering and your doctor advises you to come in right away. Maybe it’s nothing serious in the end, but that void of uncertainty is scary as hell. I’m grateful for my body and the fact that, while I sometimes still don’t see my legs as my own while they’re in this state, they are indeed healing.
This all happens to dovetail with the fact that for the last year or so, I’ve been incorporating more dance into my fitness practice. It’s instilled a powerful new sense of presence in my body, not necessarily because my physique has changed (it hasn’t) but because it’s almost stupidly gratifying to see what it’s capable of—what it’s been capable of all along. And I’ve found myself wielding that power, willing my body to move in ways it hasn’t before, both on and off the dance floor. It’s given me the confidence to say I feel more in myself—and in love with myself—than ever.
That, coupled with how my legs have fared through the treatments, has only made me more resilient. So when my doctor told me I needed another round of treatments, I didn’t cry like the first time. Instead, I counted the weeks until June and made a personal declaration: This summer belongs to my legs.
Provided this second series goes as planned, there should be just enough time for my legs to heal and look normal again before the temperatures soar. Normal: The very word sounds surreal, considering how chaotic this unpredictable world feels right now. The passage of time is one of our few constants, and between summer’s inevitability and the prospect of reclaiming my body in its entirety, I’m clutching on tight to that hope. Bring on the sunshine! This is going to be my wet, hot, leggy summer. Microminis, the shortest of shorts—any chance to bare the most of these 42 inches making up more than half my body. Maxidresses and my usual arsenal of linen trousers will have to sit this season out. They just don’t align with my envisioned persona for the next few months: unabashed leg slut.
And given my medical bills—which thankfully my insurance covered—how could I not show the world the results of these treatments? For the same cost, I could go to grad school for two years; I could purchase 155 pairs of Normatec compression boots or enough Wolford hosiery for a small town. I could take 2,500 Tracy Anderson classes. Instead, I’ll just get dressed. So what am I going to wear? Chloé’s spring collection offered plenty of frothy, frilly leg-baring inspiration, including bloomers and bubble-hem miniskirts in blushy, romantic neutrals. Even longer dresses, cut asymmetrically, seemed to propose a free-the-leg agenda.
It’s been several seasons since Miuccia Prada’s spring 2022 collection for Miu Miu summoned a veritable youthquake with its cropped, pleated miniskirts that seemed more like elaborate belts. But the Y2K references persist, from sweetly nostalgic schoolgirl styles à la Sandy Liang to Ulla Johnson’s sporty cargo-pocket utility shorts—perfect for holding just the essentials on my long summer walks.
But just as every curious ache or suspicious skin discoloration triggers a cacophony of internal alarms about aging these days, there’s also this irksome new question I’ve started to ask myself lately: Am I too old for…? I wish I could say that internal refrain didn’t echo as loudly as it does, that age isn’t even something I think about. But it is. We (and I especially mean women) have been served entire brand campaigns, sloganeering, and a litany of other cultural propaganda encouraging us not to feel insecure or hemmed in by our age. It’s just a number, right? But the need for such messaging wouldn’t exist if that mindset were the status quo from the very beginning.
The fact is age does matter—in innumerable and often celebratory, even humbling, ways—and to declare one’s obliviousness to it is about as ridiculous as it is insincere. Embrace it or not, it’s there. It’s why Nicole Kidman’s 2022 Vanity Fair cover, in which she appeared wearing one of those infamous Miu Miu microminis and a matching bra top, drew such feverish attention. Kidman, 54 at the time, was both praised and scorned for the glaring youthfulness of her skin-baring look. Some found it refreshing and even fun, if only for the shock value; others, not so much. (Kidman, for her part, voiced having no regrets.) If anything, the cover set off a healthy churn of debates around ageism and beauty standards. (And for what it’s worth, I think Kidman’s legs looked great in that four-inch skirt.)
I’ve already relinquished more hours than I’d ever like to vein treatments and ultrasounds, recovery days, and follow-up appointments. Time is far too precious to waste feeling anything less than glad to simply be here—and with something to show for it too.
And here’s something I never considered: Since getting the treatments, I’ve noticed my legs actually feel different. They’re less heavy and achy at the end of the day. I’m no longer woken up by sharp, continuous cramps. My legs feel rested and capable, and there’s suddenly a spring in my step. It’s sensational, and that’s all the reason I need to let them walk out into the spotlight.