I've mentioned this before.
The Urban Dictionary defines Cankles as: The absence of a defined ankle on a person - whereby the calf of the leg merges directly into the foot. The calf appears to replace the ankle ...
I'm so self conscious about my "cankles" that I often include a disclaimer when I meet people for the first time.
"Hi ... my name is Erin. I'm a mom and a wife. I have cankles."
It wasn't long ago that I asked my family doctor if I could have plastic surgery on my ankles to try to improve the shape and size.
He told me I was crazy and that there was nothing wrong with my ankles and that they were perfectly lovely ankles and that I absolutely did not need plastic surgery on my ankles.
He was wrong ... I know he was wrong.
I have lived with fat ankles for my entire life.
There are certain types of shoes I can't wear. I can't wear shoes with straps or any kind of strappy shoe really ... they make my ankles look bigger.
I can't wear cute ballet flats with any kind of skirt.
I can't even get certain styles of ankle boots on my feet.
(Nothing boosts your self-esteem like grunting and sweating in a high end shoe store while trying to pull on a cute pair of ankle booties and having the seventeen year old sales girl suggest that perhaps a nice pair of orthotics might be a better fit.)
Once, when I was younger someone told me I had really cute legs. I was all like ... really, THANKS! And then he said ... "yeah, you have cute Charlie Brown legs."
Charlie Brown doesn't have any ankles.
He doesn't have any knees either, but that's not the point.
My point is that I really hate my ankles.
At a very recent visit to the doctor I was forced to see another practitioner in the office as my - wonderful - doctor was away on vacation.
After tearing a strip off me because of my weight gain in the first trimester (during which she implied that I had perhaps indulged in one to many Lemon Meringue Pies) she had the balls to ask me if my ankles were already swollen.
I sighed ... "No ... my ankles always look like this."
She looked right at me - in disbelief, void of all sensitivity - and said, "oh" ...
That's it. Just "oh".
What kind of a monster doesn't try to make a pregnant woman feel better about her cursed cankles?
My entire life I've felt alone in my quest for a better looking ankle. I've lived with the fact that people thought I was insane for dreaming of plastic surgery to fix the disfiguration.
Until I found this ...
I am not alone.
There is hope.
All I need is four-thousand to eight-thousand dollars and strappy shoes here I come!
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