My leg is up on my desk. It is supposed to be above my heart for maximum vein relief, but I haven't yet figured out how to comfortably rest with my leg at such an angle as to be higher than my heart. Varicose veins get worse with every pregnancy, my doctor says, which I had already proven in a single-subject experiment on the malady. They usually kick in around the 28th week of pregnancy, he says. Clearly his research has not extended to 40-year-old mothers of six and a half, whose genetic predisposition to them can be seen in the purple legs of every one of her foremothers. I have a great grandmother who gave birth to twenty-one children. Twenty-one! That would be three times the number of pregnancies I've less than cheerfully endured. I asked her granddaughter, my own mother, what Grandma Lydia's legs looked like after having so vigorously pursued her own biotic potential. She couldn't recall ever having noticed them. I would venture a guess that Grandma took care to always wear long dresses, so that no notice would be taken.
I saw a woman in the thrift store the other day, while shopping for Halloween costumes with the children. Her legs looked terrible! Bulging multi-colored veins in many distorted shapes bought a smile of delight to my face. I could have kissed her. This mother of I knew not how many children had battle scars, just like me--visible marks of motherly sacrifice to bring children into the world. How noble! How elevated that sentiment!
It gives me a wonderfully warm glow, as I dig up the number of a local plastic surgeon, and post it on my bulletin board, with the notice "Call in six months!"
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