American Thighs by Jill Conner Browne

if we are wearing them at all, our shoes are like treasured old friends—no longer particularly attractive but delightful to be with, even for long periods of time.
    For some, it could mean leaving the house BEFORE breakfast—but those are not my people. It does happen, I’m told, but I’m not around for it. Likewise, for some, it still involves high blood-alcohol ratios, but again, not for me, thank you very much. I haven’t had a hangover in what, thirty years?—and don’t feel the least bit nostalgic about any of ’em.
    Since today’s trolling timetable has been reversed, your excursion should involve a hat and massive amounts of sunscreen or soon your skin will look ju-u-u-st like those comfy shoes of yours. The chances of coming home with MULTIPLE KEEPERS are greatly enhanced today—because today, when we go trolling—we are fishing—like, for fish—in, say, the lake, for instance.
    I myownself love to fish. I find the mindless repetitive handmotions to be very like those involved in smoking, which I never failed to enjoy, back in the day. I have never missed the way cigarettes made me feel but I have grieved the loss of all that hand-fiddling connected with the activity. Of course, it did make us look soooo grown up—in a way that fishing never will—but you do cross That Line with smoking.
    You must know the one. You need to know the one before you settle comfortably into the addiction phase—which will cease to be comfy at all when quitting time comes. And of course, it MUST come. I’m not even talking about all the effects on your body, inside and out—first graders know this—it’s not news to you. What I’m talking about is That Line. One day, you are a cute young thing, looking so faux-sophisticated with her ciggy, and BOOM!—the next day, you are “that old lady smoking.”
    Believe me, you will BE “that old lady smoking” to other (younger) people about twenty to twenty-five YEARS—BEFORE—YOU think you look the least bit old-ladyish.
    But anyway, I find the rhythm of the constant hand motions of fishing to be quite soothing, and now that we live thirty feet away from a large lake, I can soothe myself at will. Well, I can actually indulge in this particular form of self-soothing only when either The Cutest Boy in the World or my neighbor Angie is at home. As much as I love to fish, I gotta tell you, there is a great divide between what’s known as “fishing” and what’s known as “catching.” I need one or the other of them to be handy in case I should catch something—which is quite oftenactually—fish happen to like me. The reason I restrict my fishing to the times when Kyle and/or Angie can be quickly summoned to my side is that although I do love to fish and particularly to catch—SOMEBODY’S got to take ’em off the hook besides me.
    Oh, I don’t mind touching the fish, not at all—I even kiss all the ones I throw back, which is most of ’em. No tongue or anything, but I do give ’em a little peck on the lips. The fish I’m fine with, but somebody else has to free my fish on account of I cannot be trusted to NOT impale myself on even the simplest, most basic fishhook. My limitations are many, and I acknowledge them all—this is one of them—I’ve come to terms with it.
    My other neighbor, Laura, is an equally large Girl when it comes to this so I don’t feel too bad, but in a pinch, even me and my fellow wimp-ass, Laura, can be counted on to man up, which is a source of comfort to Kyle and Angie, I’m sure.
    One afternoon, Angie and I were fishing from my seawall. Kyle was in New York for some forgotten and for the sake of this story unimportant reason and Laura was sitting on her own back porch, enjoying a little of what we call “Laura Fest,” meaning she wasn’t doing jack shit and she was loving