Arms, Upper and Under

Here's the deal, as I remember it. For a teenager in the '50s, one of the worst social sins was to reveal hairy armpits (hairy legs as well, but this is an arm story). I can remember how unpleasant it was to scrape that razor over sensitive skin. How shaving would often lead to a rash, which you ignored and covered over with a nice, strong deodorant. All day your armpits itched, but scratching them was another social sin.

 

Clothing choices were based on whether the armpits were freshly shaved. Obviously if they weren't, you couldn't wear a sleeveless blouse, because Someone Might See. So even if that blouse was the perfect color to go with your pedal pushers, you had to choose a different one, one with sleeves, or else start all over, finagle your way into the bathroom between siblings' visits ("Will you GET OUT! I have things to do!"), and take the time to shave so that you could wear that blouse.

 

I was a most conforming teenager when it came to social rules. I lived on the margins of The Group—on sufferance, I always knew, at the best of times. A rebellion in the form of hair where none was allowed—well, that would have put me far beyond the pale, and the heart of the pale was where I most wanted to be in those days. I certainly lacked the courage of my private, rebellious convictions.

 

Luckily, I grew older and gradually wiser. I learned that one doesn't have to present oneself as a pre-pubescent girl. Still, under certain circumstances, I was careful to present myself as yet another hairless conformer.

 

And then menopause came and went (makes it sound quick and easy, when you say it that way), and with the hormonal changes came a change in hair follicles.

 

Over the course of many years not only did my head hair diminish, to my consternation, but I noticed that I was shaving my legs and armpits for no purpose. The hair was gone.

 

Ah, freedom! No more worries. Sleeveless dresses here I come.

 

But before I got around to shopping for the perfect LBD with no sleeves, I noticed the downside of post-menopausal arms: unless you're into regular weight-training (and is it a surprise that I am not?), your upper arms become undulating waves of uncontrolled flesh.

 

I watch young women cellists and violinists with awe. They can bare their upper arms and do all kinds of arm swings with impunity. Nothing jiggles. They are still all muscle.

 

On the subway with my grandson Sam when he was five, I was wearing a tight-fitting long-sleeved t-shirt the colour of my eyes and feeling pretty snazzy. Not too bad for an old broad, I was thinking. Then I pointed to something distant for Sam's benefit, and the position of my arm was such that he noticed for the first time that a sleeve-ful of jelly was swinging from my upper arm.

 

"Nana, look!" he shouted. "Look what I can do!"

 

And he began gently flipping the flesh back and forth, back and forth, delighted.

 

I've heard there's something called Flab-U-Less. Spandex cylinders that you slide onto your upper arms to firm them up. A girdle for the upper arms. I'm ready for it.

 

 

Copyright 2013 Ann Tudor

www.anntudor.ca
http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com