I’m well aware of the fact that, chronologically speaking, I have hit middle age. Since I’ve always been a firm believer that age ain’t nothin’ but a number and a person is only as old as they think, feel, and act (which might actually put me back in kindergarten), my own number never really concerned me much. Until now.
Like it or not, I’m finally being forced to acknowledge a few basic truths:
- with or without me, my body has decided to follow a linear aging process
- gravity sucks
- I have developed wings.
Wings. That wonderful state when your upper arms, much like your “girls,” begin to sag, bag, and generally turn into warm jelly-sacks. Wings. The arrival of which will be heralded that moment you raise your arm to apply your morning deodorant, only to find the underside of said arm has remained in place, alongside your rib cage.
I’m sorry, but the older, wiser women in my family NEVER warned me the day would come when I’d need two hands to put on my pit-stick; one to apply and the other to hold the flesh-drape out of the way.
When did this happen anyway? The last time I checked, I had arms that moved as one appendage. Now? I have appendages that move in stages.
arm moves *lengthy pause* underside flesh moves
And hot flashes? Add a whole new dimension to the process.
arm moves *lengthy pause followed by peeling of sweat-velcroed flesh off of rib cage* underside flesh moves
Please understand that I’m not a vain woman. Really! But there are some things that are hard for me to accept, simply due to the level of discomfort and inconvenience they cause. For instance, every time I lie down, it’s like the Kentucky Derby with the wings and the lady-lumps racing to see who can slide into my armpit first.
It’s gotten bad enough lately that I’ve been falling asleep fantasizing about some kind of sleep-harness that would keep arm-skin with arm, chest-flesh with chest. And yes, a bra would help with the breast-migration, but what about the flesh-drape?
There are just so many questions that I need answered! Is the day coming where I’m going to have to fold it up like an accordion to keep from rolling over on it in my sleep? Am I soon to be relegated to a round the clock uniform of long sleeved shirts? (Will gravity ever stop sucking?)
On the up-side, I have discovered a few handy uses for my newfound flaps. On those nights when hubby steals the blankets (basically every night), I can keep comfy by wrapping my upper body in the warm folds of – me. They’ve also proven themselves useful during hot flashes, since all I have to do is give a small wave and the wing-swing creates a nice, cooling breeze.
I guess until the next bit of menopausal mayhem pops up to distract me, I can always amuse myself with thoughts of a new career. I’m thinkin’, with a little ingenuity and a tube of superglue, I could attach them permanently to my sides, bill myself as The Human Flying Squirrel, and fulfill a lifelong dream of running away with the circus.
Read more from Chris Dean on her blog