I was cycling to work in the wind recently, trying to stop my calf-length skirt from blowing over my head while simultaneously steering my trusty steed around potholes, when my mobile buzzed, signalling the arrival of an incoming message. I alighted at the traffic lights and noted with some alarm the missive on the screen. "Nice legs!!!" it read.
Nice legs!!! I peered around at my fellow commuters, wondering whether I'd been caught on Naked Camera. This leg accolade didn't make any kind of sense.
When I got to the office I texted my friend back. "What are you talking about?!" I tapped into the phone, bending down to appraise that part of my leg which was visible between ankle and hem. On a normal day, there would be no visible leg action, as since my early teens I have favoured long skirts, or on rare occasions trousers, and more often recently a skirt and trouser combination, worn together for double camouflage. The calf-length skirt I was wearing that day was a recent acquisition, the gentle tiers of the material lending, I'd been assured, a less truncated aspect to my legs. Given how this story unfolds it will be a while before I wear it again.
Obviously, the text message was sarcastic. But I was intrigued to know what had prompted it. Sure, I'd missed a bit at the back of my right leg while epilating, but my mischievous friend could hardly have noticed that at high speed on O'Connell Bridge. As far I could see, my legs were the same as they had ever been. Pockmarked like the underside of a Vienna roll from years of shaving, thick of ankle from genetic inheritance, chunky of calf due to over indulging, and threaded around the knee with noodley veins that threaten, any year now, to turn varicose. Nice legs!!! As if! Then my friend rang to explain.
We all have phrases we never expect to hear in our lives. Congratulations on winning the lottery, for one. Bono called and wants to know if you are free for lunch, for another. When my friend said, between barely stifled guffaws, "Hey Ro, you have been nominated in Social and Personal magazine's Sexiest Legs of Ireland competition", I was momentarily stunned, the way I sometimes am when attempting Sudoku. (Anyone who says they just take 10 minutes is either a rotten liar, or Stephen Hawking.) Anyway, the news of my inclusion in a sexy legs poll just did not compute.
I've mostly given up being mean about myself, but there are some facts of life that cannot be refuted. Read my lips: I. Do. Not. Have. Sexy. Legs.
Orlaith, the Belfast girl on Big Brother, has sexy legs. Or, in the words of my boyfriend, who appears to have a death wish: "She has the kind of figure every woman in the world would like to have".
Glenda Gilson, Brian O'Driscoll's girlfriend, who actually won the Sexiest Legs contest, now there's a girl who has extremely sexy legs, pulling off the virtually impossible hot pants look with astonishing aplomb. Nicole Kidman. Jennifer Garner. Natalie Portman. They have sexy legs. My sister Katie, who is blessed with 1950s Betty Grable-style legs, hers could be called sexy. But not mine. No way.
Apparently there were different categories in the contest. I was in the "Sexy Pins In Print" section, but I'd like to take this opportunity to list at least three genuinely sexy-legged journalists who in my opinion were robbed. Kitty Holland, of this newspaper, Nicola Anderson of The Irish Independent and Alison O'Connor of The Sunday Business Post are just a few who deserve that nomination more than I do. I'm handing back my medal or my free packet of pop socks or whatever it is you get - apart from ritual humiliation - for being mentioned in these things.
I wouldn't mind but, of all the features I have ever wanted to change about myself, legs come way down the list. I can appreciate a long, lithe leg as much as the next woman, but I don't mind being a shorty myself. You can live your whole life without showing your legs after all, and when visiting hot countries, you can employ any number of beautiful sarongs.
This past week I've wished I lived in Victorian times. During Queen Victoria's reign breasts become bosoms and legs became limbs, or in extremis unmentionables. Back then the legs of a grand piano were even draped to avoid giving offence to tender-minded young ladies. "When I came to the throne, young ladies did not used to have legs," said Queen Victoria. And there is a lot to be said for that.
You see, before now I was quite confident that nobody was looking at my legs. My belly, my unwashed hair or my spots - they are another story. But being mentioned in this poll has blown my cover. Having been wrongly accused of having sexy legs, I am worried people are going to start trying to catch glimpses of them, before muttering to each other about how the judges must have been blind. That's why I am writing this article. For justice. I repeat: I. Do. Not. Have. Sexy. Legs. I might very well sue.
