Segue – the very fact I’ve outlived her and the rest of my family is freaky, but they died very young.
Being a Southern Belle of a certain age, I have taken steps to counteract the effects of gravity. I wear foundation garments that push up and over. (Not to the point I can’t swallow because of my breasts being in the way, however.) I do stretching exercises to keep limber. I like certain lighting. I wear moisturizer. I take my thyroid pill so I won’t become a desiccated old hag and blow away with the wind.
Speaking of the wind – that brings me to the topic of this blog post.
I’ve always been sensitive about parts of my body jigging. It’s not necessary to list the parts. Just stand up and do a little shake and you’ll figure it out. Because my parts jiggle (The more time passes the more I jiggle. I would use the analogy of Jello but some things are just too graphic, if you know what I mean), the more steps I’ve taken to counteract said movements, especially my arms. I look like I could take off in a high wind like one of those bird suits.
When I wave goodbye my arms are still moving five minutes later.
I’ve taken up weights.
I started with two pounders, went to five pounds, and now I’m using ten pounds per arm. Ten pounds. Per. Arm. Gradually, my arms firmed up. My arms are toned. I can lift twenty-five pounds of dog food without breaking a sweat. However, there’s a teensy, tiny problem.
Today I can’t move my arms.
I can move every other part of my body, but not my arms. They’re on strike. They’re just resting at my sides, healing up. Drinking coffee this morning was a pip. I begged one of them to move, but it wouldn’t. I finally maneuvered my coffee cup to the edge of the counter and slurped.
I’m not typing this. I’m dictating it, instead, because my fingers won’t cross the picket line. Today has been the oddest day. Every time I move I also punctuate the moment with ladylike screams.
I’m shaking my head at myself. There are times when being a Southern Belle is just a pain. Literally.
But my arms look GOOD.