Today I’m going to talk about something that might get me kicked out of the club. You know the club. The “Secrets-Women-Don’t-Talk-About-With-Each-Other-And-Certainly-Not-With-Men” Club. I mean, I’ve never been a very good member of the club, so I’m not all that fussed about today’s imminent dismissal. But dismissed I shall be.
I first discovered Chub Rub when I was a nice, reasonable, curvy size 8. I looked good and it was the first sunny day of the year. I threw on my favourite white dress, sandals and headed to the beach. Within ten minutes of walking along the shore I found that my inner thighs had started to hurt. And I don’t mean that they were a little sore. I mean, it was like they were on fire, like they were dying. Like I was going to look down and see blood pouring down my legs.
But, what’s a girl to do? I walked for another 30 minutes before I finally cried uncle, found a patio, and ordered a beer. I sat there, debating whether or not it was socially acceptable to stick a cup of ice between my legs, before retreating to the bathroom to find that my legs were, indeed, bleeding.
You see, my thighs touch when i walk. My thighs rub together when I walk. My thighs have friction when I walk. And that friction causes bloody welts to form.
Keep in mind that the first time this happened I was a size 8. Size 8 is like my dream size. When I’m size 8 I’m legitimately curvy, in shape, looking good. Size 8 is perfect for me.
Currently I’m size 14 (EEK!). Size 14 is the highest that I EVER allow myself to get before I inevitable starve myself for several weeks in order to get back to size 10.
(Note to self: must stop eating soon).
(Size 8 is like a unicorn. I know that I’ll probably never see it again and yet I keep a stash of size 8 clothing just in case).
Regardless, size 8 or size 14… Chub Rub is an issue for me.
I had never heard of Chub Rub growing up. I mean, my Mother’s thighs have probably never touched. I bet they’ve never had the audacity to speak to each other. I come from a family of tall, leggy women. My sister’s thighs? They’ve probably never even seen each other.
And yet my thighs. My thighs. My big, curvy, vv (very voluptuous), thighs. They talk all the time. They can’t get enough of each other.
My thighs need protection.
I stopped wearing skirts for about 8 years because I couldn’t figure out how to stop this from happening. Wearing shorts under my skirts seemed unsexy and unreasonable. Surely my thighs would stop their disastrous dance. (Cue wearing a skirt defiantly, cue serious pain, cue weeks of recovery).
I finally went to google, as we all do for life’s mysteries, and put in the following search terms: “my thighs rub together when I walk – it hurts!”. There were over a million results!
I was not alone! I was not the only one! I was not some weird thigh-rubbing freak!
This is also when I discovered the words “Chub Rub”.
(Chub Rub? Are you f*cking kidding me? Was there no less dignified name that they could come up with?)
I discovered that there were remedies. Lots of remedies.
Over the past few years I’ve tried them all. But nothing really comes close to Jockey Skimmies SlipShort. They call them a leg slimming “slip”. This is code for “will-keep-your-thighs-from-bleeding”.
I bought a pair today with lace. Because lace will make wearing bicycle shorts under my dress suddenly sexy… right?!
Sometimes (often times?) being a woman is undignified. But I’m going to stay a girl. And my Skimmies shall forever be my friend.
I leave you with this…