Killer Calves

I own a pair of denim capris that I've worn three times so far since the sun came back. Each of those times, I've gotten a comment about my killer calves, which apparently "bulge" out of the pant legs when I'm standing on tippy-toes at the gelato house counter, or dancing tango, or even just walking. My killer calves have become the talk of the town! The third time, I was walking home in the dark with Sarah, when a biker rode up behind us exclaiming, "What did you do to get those killer calves?!" I turned around and stared because I thought she said something about killing cops.

To answer the biker's question, it's in the jeans. I mean genes. My dad has killer calves, and they ended up on my legs. Aside from nature, these sons of guns have been nurtured: I've spent many hours for the past 5 months balancing on my toes. My killer calves will only get more killer (killest?) since I've begun training for the Broad Street Run. By the end of this month, my killer calves will probably get stopped at the airport security checkpoints because they'll be considered a weapon.