My 89-year-old stepmother and I, who are not habitual runners, fairly ran to the car. My husband, dressed in salmon shorts and a slouchy shirt meant not to be tucked, ambled over.
“Hurry up,” I snarled. “Get in the car and turn on the air!”
We could have stayed longer at the high school graduation party. The food was yummy: there were mountains of pizza boxes, trays and trays of fruit and veggies, an assortment of empty-calorie foods like Oreos and Cheetos and Doritos. The company was pleasant, and the guest of honor was, in equal parts appreciative, humble, and ga-ga over his girlfriend.
But the kid graduated in May, for Pete’s sake. And the party was in late August, a Cincinnati August. “Steamy” doesn’t begin to describe the oppressiveness of the heat and humidity. We were under a shelter, so we were spared the direct sun, but the enclosure held in the air like a balloon.
Little kids, boys and girls, wore shorts and tank tops and flip flops. Men wore shorts and t-shirts. But the adult women were under wraps. Both my stepmom and I had worn sleeveless maxi-dresses that with scooped necklines.
And we also wore shrugs, of course. Little short sweaters which were created, not for warmth, not for style, but to conceal women’s arms, appendages that for older ladies are linked with shame.
When we got back in the car, I ripped off my shrug, and the temperature inside my bra and under my arms immediately dropped 30 degrees. I cranked up the fan and leaned into the coolness.
Why do we forsake comfort for, for . . . well, I don’t know what. I won’t say we forsake comfort for beauty, because that implies that the very natural droop of our underarm skin is hideous. Didn’t Sir Issac Newton prove the existence of gravity four centuries ago?
Arms aren’t the only thing we wrap.
My husband and I walk hand in hand down the beach. Well, that’s not really accurate. He is carrying his 45-pound camera and I am checking Facebook on my phone.
I digress.
So . . . my husband and I are walking down the beach, close enough that most people would assume we know each other. He is wearing his swimming trunks and a loose t-shirt (that doubles as a pajama top) to protect his fair skin.
I am wearing my one-piece bathing suit. It has a skirt, one I pretend that has the flair of an ice skater’s costume. But over this bathing suit, I wear, get this, a long-sleeved full-length gauzy cover-up. I say it’s to protect my skin, but you and I — and even my husband — know it’s about something else.
Clothes shopping is already a trial for me, as I have to go the Big Girls department, which is usually flanked by maternity clothes on one side, and petite clothes on the other. Within this department, which in TJMaxx occupies smaller real estate than the dog toys, I limit myself to clothes that meet these requirements: must have sleeves, must cover my butt, must cover my belly, must camouflage my back fat, must not be bright or horizontally striped or light-colored on the lower half.
Perhaps I am painting myself as a victim, that our culture of body shaming pinioned me.
But who wrapped me? Yeah, this gal wearing the gray tunic and black pants and a poncho the size of a parachute. I am complicit in this culture of fat-shaming.
I am the one who wore a long-sleeved wedding dress in August in an un-air-conditioned church. I thought I was fat (I wasn’t) and even then, at nineteen, I was ashamed of my arms.
I am the one who taught in schools without air-conditioning wearing blouses with sleeves. Why? I didn’t want to reveal the jiggle when I wrote on the board.
I am the one who says to the saleswoman in the Woman’s Department, “Why do they make all the dresses sleeveless in these sizes?” It’s because, I guess, humans have arms that are simply appendages, after all. Useful appendages that carry armfuls of laundry, provide armrests for babies, lay down armaments. Appendages that end in appendages: curved ballet hands, rested palms on cheeks, signing fingers, shaking fists.
When I walk down the beach in my burka beachwear, I am judging. Judging the robust lady with underarm udders and a chest as big as, well, a chest, I think, What are you doing wearing a bikini? Her answer, I think, would be, I am enjoying the sun and thinking about myself, not what you are thinking about me. I have met the enemy, and it’s me! (Perhaps, us.)
This call to arms is not so very brave. It is winter, after all, and soon the temperatures will dip, and weather-appropriate apparel is designed to cover up. I will be glad for my sleeves and my turtlenecks and my caftans and my wraps for about six months.
But next summer, maybe, just maybe, I will bare my arms. I will unwrap myself.
Go for it Sandy! You are beautiful. Proudly unwrap, I say
Oh so true…..my shopping criteria for clothes is at least 3/4 sleeves, must have a v-neck (elongates the neck waddle) and have plenty of room to cover my tummy, hips, and most of my thighs…..it is an impossible task.
You speak the truth once again! Loved it!
My husband is the only one who has seen my upper arms in decades. Why do we care so much? Loved this post, Sandy
Oh, what truth you tell. Surely there is someone to blame for our need to “cover up”. Maybe it’s just the fashion police who seem to tell us everyday how cute and sexy we always have to look while pushing their skimpy, made for the 20’s and 30’s crowd. Your writings are always so refreshing and laughter producing. Keep up the good work – we love you!
Thank you so much for reading and responding. Glad to know I’m not alone out there with my covered arms.
Again, you nailed it. Every now and then, I’m tempted to go sleeveless in public. Nope, can’t do it. We need a leader and it should be you! Great piece, Sandy. Per usual.
Thank you. Hope all my readers forget my vow by next summer!
It’s impossible to find a dress with a 3/4 length sleeve for cover up and warmth ( in winter). You hit it on the nose again.
Do you think our husbands have ever thought for 5 seconds about covering their arms–or anything else?
Not one damn time!!!
When I saw an 80-year-old woman wearing a bright blue bikini on a Caribbean beach without a care for others’ thoughts or opinions, I decided her attitude was the right one for happiness.
So true. Thanks for reading and, as always, your support.
Oh, Sandy! My sister in saggage! Love this and, obviously, relate 100%. When I see anyone of a similar size to myself I alternate between being appalled and envious if she’s baring arms or wearing shorts, let alone a bathing suit. I haven’t worn anything sleeveless since college, I’m pretty sure. Thanks for another fabulous essay, Sandy!
I have never thought of you as anything other than beautiful.
Blushing! Thanks for reading–and for responding in such a loving way.
I love your insights into the everyday thoughts we all have or had. Each topic has touched me and I shake my head positively as i am reading your blog. Thank you for you!
Love to know that from far away we are still connected.
We all laugh in solidarity!
And when we laugh, oh the jiggle! Thanks for reading and writing.
I have been a member of the ‘covered arms club’ for many years and have actually googled “elbow length sleeves” when shopping for summer clothes.
We were both covered up in that hot as hell classroom in the JFD basement. Really. Why oh why? Thanks for reading. Good to hear from you.
I love this, Sandy. I love that you make me think and laugh in equal parts. Bravo!
I could not have written this without your insightful comments. Thank you.
Ah! The dreaded arm flap! For a big girl, mine is not that bad. I do wear sleeveless tops in the summer. Alas, it is the terrible turkey neck that torments me and everything below the neck that has gone real far south! However at my son’s summer wedding I wore a sleeveless long dress – and a matching shrug; did not want my arm sag recorded for posterity!
Thanks for starting my day with, not just a chuckle, but a huge belly laugh! Sandy, you are truly Every woman!! You speak for us all!!!
Thanks, Ned, for your comments and your support.
Love this. Check out Ziegler pool this summer those large young gals are warriors to fat shaming. I’m channeling some Italian Grannies and going sleepless. At work honestly I’m still sporting the sleeve. Thank you.
Love women warriors!
YOU SANG MY SONG!
La, la, la! Thanks for reading and writing.
No need for cover ups on this piece of Lingo’s lingo. It’s wonderfully strong and flawless. Nothing flabby here!
Hey, who’s the writer here! You’re a funny lady. Punny.