LEGS—AND MYSELF

Otago Witness, Issue 3859, 28 February 1928, Page 9

LEGS—AND MYSELF

By

Alice Vyner.

(Special for the Otago Witness.) From childhood my legs have dogged my footsteps. No one has ever known the wave of utter helplessness that has always swept over mo when they were discussed. For, after all, legs are—well, legs. What can you do about them? Years and years of Russian dancing helped my sister, but life is too strenuous •to take a course of Russian dancing—on this side. A sickly schoolboy once said to my brother: “ Your sister has such fine ankles,” and the beast retorted: “ Yes, we’re very proud of them. And they’re just the same right to the knee —farther, for all I know.” When I went the way of all flesh—grew up—married—in a foamy skirt all round my ankles—my legs were forgotten. That they would ever come to light to trouble me did not even flutter across my mind. My mother gave me a little blue “ sailorish ” dress for my> trousseau, and smiled as she said : “ Of course, you won’t be able to get another dress of this kind.” “ Why not? ” , “ Well, it’s just a little girlish for a married woman—and short. You see, it clears the ground—shows your ankles, in fact.” A sad, sweet vision came over me of my middle-age. A vision of fichus, of long soft skirts—and peace. But now! The half-century is well in sight, and a legless peace is far from being mine. It is some years since a bright friend said to me: “ Why don't you wear your skirts shorter? Everyone else does—you are making yourself consineuous.” So I turned up the hems. “ What sticks! Can’t you do something for them? ” Sadly, I shook my head. “ Never mind, dear,” kindly spoke my bright friend, “ it's better than having I>eople say you must have varicose veins.” “Do they say that?” “ I could kick myself. I didn't mean to tell you.” “ So I just set my teeth, and each year turned up another inch or so. Hardly anyone said anything—while I was there. A year ago came a pleasant surprise. I discovered a calf—a little higher up than most people’s, but the real thing all the same. I felt quite unnoticeable as I flung along among the flappers. But still the skirts rise—mine with the rest. I was so glad to see Clara this morning. She has been studying art in Paris, and I was finding her talk about “ lines ” most interesting until she stopped dead and looked at my legs. “ I know they're thin,” I said with casual pride (I really felt as confident as all that), “but, after all, they’re fashionable.” “ Ye-es, but I didn’t realise until this very minute that you are bandy-legged.” Perhaps somewhere above by knees there is a “ line ” that will put things straight again. There is no sense in looking on the black side, and the future is full of possibilities.