Sonya Schneider
ODE TO CROSSED LEGS
Two strangers sit cross legged on either end of a pleather couch in a reborn convention center, reading the news from their iPhones while waiting for their daughters’ volleyball games to begin. The woman’s legs rest against one another with a kind of rueful stubbornness, a nod perhaps to her dancing youth, or her general cynicism toward sports tournaments. The man’s top leg, on the other hand, bounces like an excitable doodle at a dog park, all knee flexion and fervor, against his bottom leg. His legs are much longer than hers, and they seem to want to move time along quickly. Both of them are legs-crossed people. Really, if you look around, there are so many of us, reclining against park benches and in airport lounges, hiding under conference and café tables, accidentally kicking our spouses or friends and quickly apologizing. My brother, who is forty-two and who sits for extended periods on the toilet while watching Disney movies, crosses his pale, petite legs with the aplomb of a Parisian. When I visit him at my parents’ house, I often arrive when he’s mid-bathroom, and something about the ease of his leg-crossing allows me to believe it’s okay to barge in and kiss the top of his balding head. Crossing one’s legs is a habit, but it’s also a habitude. It crosses into realms of style (skirt or slacks?), a general je ne sais quoi, and, sadly, chronic back and hip pain. I’ve been told by physical therapists to avoid it, but it’s like being told not to pick a perfect rose, or savor a bite of wagyu beef, or offer a hand to someone after they’ve fallen.
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