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The Great Aging Arm Expose
...by Sara J. Glerum
After reading a weather forecast that predicted unseasonably warm weather, I was concerned I might need to change my mind about what
to wear to my high school's fiftieth reunion. When I phoned my friend to ask what she was wearing, she replied, "Nothing sleeveless,
that's for sure... even if it's hot. I'm not about to show my upper arms."
I chuckled. "That's exactly the reason I'd planned to wear a long-sleeved jacket. I hate putting my flabby arms on display." We commiserated
about our bodily shortcomings for a few minutes before moving the conversation to more global topics.
No sooner had I hung up than my sister called. When she mentioned how reluctant she was to pack anything short-sleeved for an upcoming
Elderhostel trip, it dawned on me just how ridiculous we older women can be. We might be justifiably self-conscious in a roomful of beautiful
young models in their prime. But at an Elderhostel? A fiftieth reunion? Why do we feel so embarrassed with our own kind, women our own age?
Very few of us have escaped the effects of aging. In sandal season, I observe others with toenails thickened from fungi or poor circulation.
At the beach, I enjoy the company of plenty of blue legged soul-sisters whose derrières jiggle as much as mine. In the locker room at the "Y,"
I notice that most of us have the same 'reverse-bellies,' those upside-down shelves that would be useful to put something on if only we could
walk on our hands. Whether it's veins that protrude—or crêpey skin—or sagging jowls, we can find evidence of parts wearing out, wherever we
look. The elasticity is gone, the colors are fading, the hips are fatter and the hair is thinner. Oh sure, a few of us have had repairs and
replacements, but most of us show our age. So why do we let it bother us?
We have only to watch Antique Road Show to realize that crackled finish on furniture is revered and lace yellowed with time is admired.
We pay big bucks for aged cheese, bourbon, and wine. Oh sure, some things become less attractive with age, like the glass on double-pane
windows that gets cloudy. But new isn't always better. Ask my husband if he likes his new titanium knee better than his old one, even if
the old one didn't have any cartilage left.
Our flabby arms, disappearing waistlines, and multiplying chins are merit badges of our lives. Do we refuse to stay friends with people who
are becoming bald? Do we stop going to a friend's house because her rugs are threadbare? Do we withdraw our patronage from a favorite eatery
because it needs redecorating? Why have we let ourselves become so victimized by our fetish for perfection that we writhe in the angst of
self-consciousness over sagging bodies?
If we're over sixty, we aren't contestants in the 'cutest girl' pageant anymore. We should be standing side-by-side in solidarity. Perhaps
we can all get together and have a coming out party for our arms. We could call it the Great Arm Expose, or Up in Arms. As the ultimate
I'll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours event, it would be bigger than Woodstock, lots bigger. And while we're celebrating, maybe we
should take it one step further and gather on a beach to wear swimming suits en masse. How dare we be embarrassed over something so
natural as our aging bodies! We can stop this flap over flab. Let's stand up, be proud, and let it all hang out.
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