FLESH, in the

I finally made it to the gym yesterday after weeks of good intentions, and plan to go again today. I’ve been sidelined for a while with foot and knee injuries that also killed my tennis game, the chief de-stressor of my life.

Part of my resolve is I figure I can either accept a condition, or work to get rid of it. I prefer the latter philosophy and I’m eager to get cracking. Yes, it still hurts a little, but I’m being careful and hopefully that will lessen over time.

Weight is always a concern for me, not blessed with a rail-thin frame, and it’s particularly more so lately without the ability to exercise.

I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t also admit that part of my resolve to get moving is motivated by a barrage of recent emails from my favorite medical self-help site that has assaulted my mid-life sensibilities.

Here are a few of them. Like: “Bid bye-bye to your bat wings,” which for those not in the know is the hanging flab that materializes on your underarms when you aren’t looking.

Or, “You, too, can shed your saddlebags,” those clumps of upper thigh fat that make it impossible to fit into pants.

I was particularly mesmerized by “Easy ways to melt your muffin top and minimize your menopot,” which I am still trying to locate. And then of course, one of my favorites, “Bra bulge begone!” No explanation needed there.

For God’s sake, is there any part of us that isn’t beseiged either by gravity or the judgment of others? And more importantly, why are they sending these emails to me? Do they know me?

Ten years ago, I used to start most days with a pre-dawn walk or trip to the Y. It was the only time I had to myself with small kids and an office job. Now I have more options and I plan to take advantage of them immediately after reading these emails.

My husband was cooking dinner the other night when I approached him fully manic over this, folded my arms by my ribcage and started to flap. How bad are my bat wings? I asked.

He was incredulous as I railed on about midlife, menopots, and gravity, silently sautéeing the chicken, eyes growing wider by the second. When I took a breath he put down the spoon, filled a wineglass, and handed it to me. ‘Nuff said, I guess.


About Michele

I am a freelance writer with three kids, two cats, and a dog with thyroid disease. I'm bouncing back from a divorce and making the most of every day. There is so much beauty around me. I am grateful!
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