No one warned me that aging would be like entering a long-term relationship with gravity: clingy, controlling, and with zero regard for personal boundaries. At this point, gravity and I are basically codependent. It keeps pulling and I keep sagging.
There are My Arms
Take my arms, for example; once toned and carefree, they’ve now developed a mind of their own. I wave goodbye, and they wave five more times after I’ve stopped. I’m seriously considering bag clips—not for a bag of chips, but to gather up the loose skin and stop the after-party. Who knew my triceps would audition for interpretive dance every time I gesture?
…And My Legs!
And my legs? Oh, let me tell you about my legs. Standing up from a chair is now a performance piece. I don’t just rise. I unfurl like one of those Roman shades that you tug once, then watch as it jerks and flutters its way downward in slow motion. It’s not graceful. It’s not quiet. It’s not flattering. It doesn’t make me want to experience wearing a pair of shorts. It’s… deeply creaky and crepey. And when all of the unfurling and falling is done, I have fat settled around my knees like a pair of buoys; always bobbing when I walk to remind me I’m still afloat, even if my dignity isn’t.
As for the skin on my legs, it’s no longer the smooth terrain of my youth. These days, it’s a full-color topographical map of Minnesota. Every vein, dimple, and squiggle is a scenic route. I could give guided tours: “Here we have the Mississippi spider vein, and over here—Lake Cellulite, a lovely body of rippling water visible in direct sunlight.”
Breasts, Gravity, and the Great Zucchini Migration
Once upon a time, my breasts were perky little optimists, pointing proudly toward the horizon like they had dreams and a five-year plan. Fast forward a few decades (and consider that I may have had one too many yoyo dieting encounters). Now, my breasts are more like two tired travelers who took a wrong turn south and decided to settle there permanently.
I used to have “grapefruit” style. Now? I’m working with “zucchini” realness: long, slightly confused, and unsure of their purpose. Honestly, if I lay on my back, they just slide into my armpits like they’re trying to escape the conversation.
Sports bras? I don’t wear them to work out—I wear them to keep the girls from falling into my waistband when I get ready to walk in the morning. And don’t even get me started on underwires. If my body parts are going to pretend to be vegetables, at least give me a trellis.
Some people get implants to defy gravity. I just need a good winch and a pulley system and quite possibly a scaffolding permit.
So yes, my breasts are defying gravity—in the sense that they’ve completely surrendered to it and are now its most loyal disciples.
I tried yoga to counteract the pull that has taken over; but let’s be honest, that’s a stretch… literally and figuratively.
Despite all of that, I’m still standing—slowly, but still standing. There’s something empowering in embracing the quirks of this stage of life. I’ve earned these lines, these waves, these vegetables, these cartographical thighs. And if gravity wants to keep tugging at me, fine. I’ll just get stronger bag clips.
Or better yet, I’ll wave back—with both arms.
Thanks for reading my blog. Good friends are like good bras; close to the heart and always there if you need support.
Until next time, Donetta
Leave a Reply