I didn’t think that it would ever hit me! I don’t know how
the years crept up on me and then, like Jell-O in a catapult, hit me square in
the face and oozed downwards. I look around, and everyone else pretty much
looks the same. How could I alone be suffering this indignation? Could it be
hereditary?
One day this spring, I put my underwear on, only to find out
that the crack of my butt had literally dropped a few inches. My underwear,
when viewed from behind (in one of those 3-way mirrors – yes, I have one) hung
off of my cheeks as if it were grasping onto the edge of a cliff. My crack was revealed
above the elastic band. I pulled
it up, and it sagged down; I pulled it up again, and it sagged again. It seemed
that the gravitational forces had increased overnight. Either that, or my
clothes dryer was running hot, and shrinking my finery.
Gravity is exerting its’ force all over my body. These days,
when I strike the pose of downward dog, the skin above my knees wrinkles, sags
and dimples like a newborn bum. Now I understand why women wear those really
expensive yoga pants! I thought it was a fashion thing—but now I realize it is
to hold everything tightly in place giving the illusion of fit and formed. (Why do you think Yogis have to breathe
so slowly? And move as if they are in slow motion? It is because their
undergarments and yoga clothes are so tight!)
Another area that gravity has remodeled
is my bosom. We must, we must, we must
increase our bust—the bigger the better, the tighter the sweater, the boys
depend on us! What once rose firm and proud below my collarbones now hang lumpy,
and stretched somewhere near my lower ribs. When I lie down, they fall right
off my chest, landing softly in my armpit. When my kids were a bit younger, this provided many giggles.
Settled into bed in our pajamas, they poked my flattened chest, like it was a
xylophone and they were the percussionists. Then they gathered my drooping
breasts into their scrubby little hands and pushed them back into position.
They held them there fleetingly, and then pulled their hands away as if they
were performing a magic trick. As my breasts slid over the edge of my ribcage, my
kids shrieked with laughter. All fun and games in our house!
It doesn’t end there. Recently while out shopping, I saw a
small package with a big promise. “Miracle Bra” it read. I had seen
advertisements for this bra, and since gravity seemed to be dragging me down –
I bought one and dashed home to try it on. Well, miracle indeed; it was a
complete geographical makeover! My breasts, which used to hover over the
western coast of South America and the eastern coast of Africa, were pulled and
squeezed so that they landed tightly on The Bahamas and Morocco. (Look it up—I
know you want to.)
It turns out that there is a whole line of gravity-defying
undergarments. I was familiar with bikini panties, hip-huggers, boy briefs,
boxer shorts, and underwire and sports bras; who knew that there was a whole
line of “shape-shifters—to sculpt your curves and smooth your trouble spots”
(Norstrom.com). There are bras, panties, bodysuits, camisoles and leggings to
tone hips and thighs, backsides, midsections and of course, the ever-troublesome
breasts. I bought a couple of articles and felt a guilty, sinful pleasure
when I slipped them underneath my clothes. A lithe woman was reflected back
from the mirror. But, I also felt a bit uncomfortable, like I was somehow cheating,
(not to mention the difficulty I was having with simple acts, like breathing!)
Some places sag, others bulge. This year, a disc in my lower
back bulged out of the space that it had happily occupied for many years. It
was such an arduous injury; I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let me
just say this—those were the heaviest shoes I have EVER bent over to pick up!
My recovery has been slow and incomplete. I was stubbornly determined to return
to the soccer field during the outdoor season. I had a fantastic
physiotherapist, and together we started to re-build, layer by layer (month
after agonizing month).
I did return to the field, stronger in many ways, but not as
limber and fluid as I had once been. And I didn’t have a day without pain for
several months. I was getting ready for soccer practice one evening this summer
and my back and bum muscles were in complete spasm. I was unable to put on my
ankle braces, shin pads, socks and cleats. I sat at the kitchen table and
cried. My husband came over to me, and gently put my soccer gear on for me. As
I got up to go to practice, he softly suggested, “Honey, maybe when you can no
longer dress yourself for soccer, you shouldn’t go”. What does he know?
A month later, I came to the same conclusion, and hung up my
cleats—from my rearview mirror.
Just days ago, I picked up my 11-year-old daughter from gymnastics.
After training, they had to be fitted for their gym suits, so all of the girls
were sitting on the beam, and all of the parents were gathered nearby. Laurèn’s
friend Julienne looked over towards me with a look of shock on her face and
yelled, “YOU”RE FOURTY-SEVEN?!” I looked left; I looked right; I brought my
hand to my chest in the universal Me?
gesture. “FOURTY-SEVEN!” she yelled again, just in case some of the latecomers
hadn’t heard. I nodded, “Yup, fourty-seven”. I had always imagined being center-stage,
in a “Sonny & Cher” kind of way, not with giggling children and awkward
adults.
Aging—an ever-present train with no brakes. I am swiftly chugging
towards fourty-eight; and by swiftly, I mean at a pace somewhere between the
fastest human (9.58 seconds/100 m) and the slowest human (standing still).
There are days when I can’t seem to put my underwear on, and other days when
the possibilities are infinite. So if you think I look good “for my age”, now
you know my secrets.
