I have a friend named Karla who lives north of here and she and I have held the great debate a couple of times (only when we're drunk enough to pull up our shirts) as to who is whiter than the other.
While she wins in the pasty white girl category, only because I think she's got more Irish in her than I do...I do get the pasty white girl's cankles that come from my lovely Danish grandmother, who's thankfully dead so she can't read this and be mortified by my obvious inability to be discreet.
This picture is of my ankle after the fall I suffered a couple of days ago. My ankle bones can't even be seen...and the puffiness is sorta cool. When you push on it, it sorta moves over, then back.
While I am embarrassed by my ankles enough to never wear skirts or shorts outside of a 25-foot radius of my house, I am rather impressed by the bruising and swelling. When I put ice on my ankle and elevate it for a while, it actually looks thin.
And while I'm thinking of long list of hopes and dreams for my daughter, let's just add my husband's metabolism and prettier legs to the list of things I hope she gets from him instead of me.
Oh, and the ability to open a garage door without taking a header off the back steps.