“You don’t have any cellulite,” she said as she tortured my muscles with what I had judged as gentle looking hands upon seeing them for the first time (I was wrong, they are anything but gentle.)

Usually I try to accept whatever compliments come my way, for they are usually true. You say my hair looks pretty? Why yes, I think it looks pretty also and I’m not afraid to admit that. You say I have nice skin? You are right, I do have nice skin, all thanks to my Danish ancestors.

But this one, it was too much for me to take. I mean, I’ve seen the back of my thighs and it ain’t a pretty sight.

Ok, they don’t look this bad.

I was about to interject (for surely one should deflect a compliment when it is a blatant lie), but then I realized something. Between the two of us, which one could be considered the expert here?

My credentials: I’ve been to the beach several times, and I always find myself flipping through those trashy mags that advertise “Worst Celebrity Beach Bodies!” to help the rest of us feel better about our menial lives.

Her credentials: She routinely plunges her hands deep into the backs, butts, thighs, and calves of strangers. She’s had the opportunity to get up close and personal with hundreds of different dermises.

I’m going to say she wins this one.

I’ve officially been branded cellulite free in 2009. It feels good to be here.