My thighs were stolen from me during the night of August 3 a few
years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up
with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal.
Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been wholly, if
imperfectly, mine for years? Whose thighs were these? What happened to mine?

I spent the entire summer looking for them. I searched, in vain, at pools
and beaches, anywhere I might find female limbs exposed. I became obsessed.
I had nightmares filled with cellulite and flesh that turns to bumps in the
night. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in
jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My buns were
next. I knew it was the same gang because they took pains to match my new
derriere (although badly attached at least 3 inches lower than the original)
to the thighs they had stuck me with earlier. Now my rear complemented my
legs lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would
stay in fashion.

It was 2 years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning
while fixing my hair, I watched horrified, but fascinated, as the flesh of
my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush.

This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced,
cleverly and fiendishly, one section at a time. Age?  Age had nothing to do
with it. Age was supposed to creep up, unnoticed and intangible, something
like maturity...NO, I was being attacked, repeatedly and without warning.

During one spring, my attention was riveted to upper arms - female arms.  I
studied them from every angle, being careful not to raise mine in public nor
flatten them too tightly against my body. In private I held them straight
out and did endless circles that would have tightened my real arms but did
nothing for these Silly-Putty caricatures. In the end, in deepening despair,
I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?

In short order, my right boob could hold a pencil (it seemed
particularly cruel to take just one). And my eyes began to remind people
that they needed a new pair of Hush Puppies. My poor neck disappeared more
quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now reminded me of.

That's why I've decided to tell my story; I can't take on the medical
profession by myself. Women of America, wake up and smell the coffee! That
isn't really "plastic" those surgeons are using. You know where they're
getting those replacement parts, don't you? The next time you suspect
someone has had a face "lifted," look again. Was it lifted from you? Check
out those tummy tucks and buttocks raising.
Look familiar? Are those your eyelids on that movie star?

I think I finally may have found my thighs.
I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!