Here's the thing. I have cankles. They're not as bad as the ones pictured above, but I have to tell you, any cankle is a bad cankle. There's no grey area when it comes to cankles. I'm a lovely middle-aged chick -- as long as you keep your eyes above my calves. Things go downhill pretty fast after that. I've always had lovely slim ankles and bony feet with well-shaped nails that look good with a pedicure. Well, those days are over. One of the few signs of aging that has been plaguing me over the past year or so are swollen ankles. Arthritis? No. Crumpled and rumpled skin? No. But ask me about cankles...and I'll excuse myself to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I'm not quite sure why I have them...or what being afflicted by cankles means as to my health and life expectancy. I'm going to assume it means my days are numbered. If you have cankles, you don't care how much longer you're going to live.
I do wonder if the media wasn't fascinated with that particular female body flaw right now, if I wouldn't be ashamed of my cankles. If they didn't have a name for it, would I even know that I had them? Would I care? Would I learn to love my cankles? Can't imagine it. As any Cinderella would tell you -- anything that might prevent you from donning a pair of glass slippers is a tragedy.