Overheard at Saks:
Shopper No. 1:“Ooh, that’s such an adorable dress.”
Shopper No. 2: “So why don’t you try it on?
Shopper No. 1: “Are you crazy? It’s sleeveless!
As we approach the warmer weather, I am convinced that this scene will be replayed over and over again in boutiques and department stores across the country. I don’t know if this fixation transcends continents, but American women of a certain age have a thing about their arms.
Typically, it is not the entire arm. The arm between the elbow and the wrist may be entirely acceptable. It is the area that lies between the shoulder and the elbow, otherwise known as the upper arm, that is the offending body part.
The sun is shining. The air is comfortably dry, definitely a good hair day. A slight breeze is blowing. Even before I step outside I can see nature’s glory through the windows and I smile. Then I frown. I frown because I suddenly recall the promise I made to myself early this morning just before I rose from my bed. I would go to the gym today. Instantly, the day grows dark!
It’s sad but true. I have become such a gym-o-phobe that even the prospect of donning a sports bra can wreck my entire day. But perhaps “phobe” is not an accurate suffix to explain my response to this house of dumbbells. I don’t exactly fear the gym; I out-and-out hate it!
This attitude represents a serious and almost unrecognizable change from my former self. There was a time in my life, extending over many years, that going to the gym was an integral part of my schedule. At least three times a week, there I was, the cardio fitness queen, pounding away on the treadmill and Stair Master. With the fierceness of a warrior, I fought against flab, torturing my individual body parts on machinery that looked like it might have been designed by Torquemada for the Spanish Inquisition.