As told to Sharon Grehan-Howes

I guess I always had a love hate relationship with my thighs. Even as a girl I knew I needed them but I didn't know why there had to be so much of them.

For the most part through my twenties I could ignore them except when I was sweaty and sat on vinyl.

The first time I noticed a major change was when I wore silk pants for the first time at an office Christmas party. I was strolling to the bar and detected a soft whisper as my thighs rubbed together rubbed together.

It wasn't obvious unless you told everyone to shut up and listen so I stopped doing that. I didn't pay too much attention until a few days later when I was walking to the bus.

I was wearing jeans and the swish, swish sound became more and more evident until I realized my thighs were trying to communicate with me.

Little suggestions like "why don't you run for the bus" changed to "why don't you run in front of the bus".

I knew I was in trouble when a particularly malevolent pair of capri pants encouraged me to audition for Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk.

I sought help but could not hear the therapist over the sarcastic murmurings of my linen trousers.

I tried wearing skirts and dresses but that didn't work because then the pantyhose would make fun of my hair.

The night was cold so I nipped into my neighbourhood McDonalds for coffee and a muffin. As I walked back to the table my trousers started nagging me about my caffeine intake and my calcium deficiency. I was tired and felt I could take no more.

My thighs got louder and louder until my hands started to shake. I raised the cup with unsteady hands to my lips and the steaming contents poured into my lap.

It was a turning point.

Then silence. Pain--a lot of pain. But silence. Complete silence. I was free.

Once again I was able to walk the streets without being told to trip an old woman or steal newspapers.

By Sharon Grehan-Howes