For thirty years, I complained about my thighs.
Thunder thighs. The bane of every dress fitting, every “does this make my legs look” conversation, every time I sized up “just to be safe” in the hips. I spent decades trying to make peace with those thighs, and on a good day, I almost did.
And now? I would take them back in a heartbeat.
Because somewhere along the way, my body apparently heard thirty years of complaints, filed them under “noted,” and granted the wish. Just not the way I meant it.
It’s giving genie logic. You know the rules. You don’t get to ask the genie for less of something and expect them to just delete it. There’s always a catch, always a “be careful what you wish for” twist you didn’t see coming. “I wish my thighs were smaller.” Genie blinks. “Granted. Relocating now.” And before you can clarify, the fat hasn’t disappeared, it’s just packed its bags and moved one floor up.
Nobody asked for a transfer. Nobody asked for a floor plan revision at all. And yet here we are.
If you’re reading this and nodding along, or worse, wincing because you’ve had your own unsolicited relocation, I have both good news and bad news.
The bad news: it’s not just you. It’s not just me. It’s not even just Filipino women, or women who “let themselves go” (a phrase I’d like to retire, ideally to the same place my thighs went).
Remember when the big body debate used to be whether you were “top heavy” or “bottom heavy”? Pear shape, apple shape, hourglass, all of that? Well, congratulations, apparently perimenopause is the great equalizer. We’re all apples now. Every shape, every size, every body type, all converging on the same midsection real estate like it’s an 11/11 sale and the belly is the last item in stock.
The good news, and this is the part that actually changed things for me, is that there’s a reason for it. A real one. Not “you got lazy” or “you stopped caring,” but an actual, measurable, hormonal reason your body decided to start storing fat like it’s preparing for a different climate.
Carlos, the ‘technical’ one in our relationship, went down a research rabbit hole on this: what estrogen actually does with fat storage, why visceral fat behaves so differently from the kind you can pinch, why your subcutaneous fat (the soft stuff) basically hits capacity and starts shoving the overflow inward like an overstuffed closet. If you want the science version, complete with footnotes and the kind of vocabulary that makes you feel smart at parties, he wrote the whole thing up here.
I’ll give you the version that doesn’t require a biology degree:
Your body used to have a storage plan. Hips, thighs, bottom, that was the warehouse. Estrogen ran that warehouse. Now estrogen’s deciding to do more work from home, and the new manager (let’s call him Cortisol, because he’s stressed and he’s making everyone else stressed too) has decided the warehouse is now your middle. All of it. Behind the muscle, around the organs, in places you genuinely cannot reach with a crunch no matter how many you do.
Which brings me to the part I really wish someone had told me earlier: the things that used to work do not work the same way anymore. Eating less? Backfires, your body just panics and holds on tighter, and you lose muscle instead of fat, which is the opposite of helpful. Endless cardio? Great for your heart, does almost nothing for this specific kind of fat. Crunches? My abs never looked different but my neck complained instead.
Carlos already covered what actually works, based on the science: build muscle, eat enough protein, protect your sleep. Here’s the lived-experience version, the small, specific things that actually happen in my day.
Build muscle. Squat, don’t crunch. And if you’re ready, deadlift. Genie logic somehow applies here too, except in a good way this time: if you want the belly fat to go away, the most effective thing you can do is build muscle in your legs. The transfer works both directions, apparently. Nobody mentioned that part either.
Eat enough protein. Make breakfast do more. Eggs alone weren’t cutting it, so now it’s eggs and cottage cheese, SecondSpring in my morning coffee or yogurt, and yes, fish in the morning, despite the side-eye from my very Australian husband who believes breakfast and seafood should never occupy the same plate.
Protect your sleep. In bed by 9pm, with a book, not a screen. Controversial. Anti-social. Also means dinner’s done by 6. But sleep isn’t the reward for getting through today, it’s the foundation for getting through tomorrow.
None of this comes with a timeline. None of it promises a refund on the relocation, or that things will go back exactly where they were. But it does mean none of this is a verdict. It’s not proof you stopped trying.
So if I’ve got two wishes left (having been unclear with the first one), I’m not leaving anything to interpretation this time. I’ve learned my lesson. This time, I’m writing it like a prompt.
Persona: You are a genie who has read the research, not just the headline.
Context: My estrogen has resigned without notice, my visceral fat has unionized, and my old strategies (less food, more crunches, vague hope) are no longer fit for purpose.
Action: Help me build muscle, protect my sleep, and keep my energy steady through whatever this body decides to do next.
Constraints: No transfers. No relocations. No surprise changes in management. Nothing “technically granted.” And absolutely nothing involving my thighs ever again.
As for my third wish, I’m saving that one. Apparently, the warehouse is still under renovation, and I’d like to keep something in reserve for whatever menopause decides to do with it next.