As I was waving goodbye to Sheila and the grandchildren, I noticed a flap of weighted skin swinging below my right arm, between my shoulder and elbow.
Where had that come from? It wasn’t there last week.
Lowering my arm to cover my armpit, I flapped my hand vigorously from the elbow as they drove away, then trudged upstairs, stood in front of the mirror and waved to myself in dawning disbelief.
That flap would do a good job on a wind turbine, yet it was a part of me. A quick check of my left arm revealed the other half of the new pair. I made a quick decision. Until I had money for remedial surgery, I would swap my cool, sleeveless tops and strapless dresses for those with longer, or three-quarter length sleeves.
No big deal, I thought, just my next wardrobe look. And, it would be temporary. I was a ‘young’ grandmother, I told myself, and I planned to keep myself looking that way.
I turned away from the mirror but, as I did so, my eye caught sight of a thread of something on my chin. I brushed it off and went to fetch track pants and a T-shirt for a comfortable evening in.
On opening the wardrobe door, the sun cast its light and I saw the thread again, still there on my chin. I tried plucking it but my skin followed it out from my face. I let go with an ‘ouch!’ It pinged back, seeking to hide in a nearby wrinkle but I knew it was there and resolved to eliminate it.
With the help of a mirror and tweezers, the rogue hair was soon located, extracted and discarded, along with a few others lurking nearby.
Random thoughts about ageing, underarm wings, stray hairs and grey hairs wafted across my brain, but were swiftly dismissed with the thought that I would simply maintain myself in good nick: part of the powerhouse that keeps the world spinning.
The following week I was reading the newspaper when, my grandson, Sam burst in on his way home from school. After he poured out the story of his day, I noticed him staring intently at my lower legs.
“There’s a caterpillar on your leg!” he exclaimed. I looked down. A wriggly line zigged across my tibia and zagged back across the fibula, but it wasn’t moving.
“Oh dear,” I said. “I must have rolled on it in the night and suffocated the poor thing.” I tried to flick it off, but it was stuck fast.
Removing my reading glasses, I looked more carefully. Hiding my horror, I realised it was a newly emerging and very ugly varicose vein.
“Oh, it’s just a vein,” I said. Then, in response to Sam’s puzzled look, I added, “Sometimes veins get stretched and they zig zag across legs to find enough space.”
“Well,” said Sam, “Mummy’s old too, and her veins aren’t ziggy. And, she hasn’t got wings. We saw wings on your arms when you waved goodbye. Mummy said don’t tell you, but I saw them. Please show me how they work. Will I get wings and ziggy veins in my legs?’
So, the wings were there last week. Perhaps they were there months ago! Why had no one mentioned them? It was time to embark on a voyage of self-discovery and find what else had changed since I last really looked at my body.
When Sam left, I headed for the bedroom and stripped to my underwear. As I slipped into each of my favourite dresses, tops and skirts, I examined its potential for revealing newly discovered flaws.
Which of my flaps were on show when I wore that dress? Was the bulge hanging over my waist revealed by that top? Was my head sitting upon a turkey’s neck? Had my boobs travelled further south than I’d realised? What did people make of the hair colour I chose to keep me young? Did people judge me as mutton dressed as lamb?
I tried on frocks, tops with plunging necklines, mini-skirts and sleeveless shirts. I checked fashionably high hemlines against newly discovered cellulite, strange dark spots and knobs on my knees.
Gathering all my tops and shirts, I created a pile of rejected clothing. A much smaller pile of keepers was built beside it. I was brutal; with a new wardrobe, my secrets would be safe.
Decisions made and job done, I headed to the shower. The gentle rain of warm water lifted my spirits and I allowed the body wash to work some magic. I began to feel better. I brushed my teeth, combed my hair and applied some face cream.
Comfortably clad in my dressing gown, I surveyed the piles on the bed. I had discarded all my clothes but a high-necked, long-sleeved gown, an old suit, two dowdy dresses, two pairs of trousers, jerseys, a track suit and sundry smalls.
I returned to the mirror and took a long, hard look. What I saw was a middle-aged woman certainly past her prime, but fit, healthy and looking pretty good.
I thought, ‘bugger it,’ and restored all but a couple of garments to their rightful place in my wardrobe!
