The Crone Zone

BoomerCafé usually concentrates on what we’ve still got now that we’re growing … um … older. But in this column from what she’s tentatively calling “The Crone Zone,” humor columnist Katie B. Goode says, what we really ought to concentrate on — and honor — is what we’ve got that we didn’t have before. Like … Arm Flab!

I knew was getting old when I began to worry that if I raised my arms on a breezy day I might get airborne.

What are these funky fillets swinging to and fro? These offensive fleshy flags flapping in the breeze? When did that happen?

Nothing says old like floppy arm flab. You can diet, face lift, botox, but unless you have have sold your soul to Be-ezel-bub or torture yourself with unspeakable exercises requiring you to touch the ceiling with your elbows while clutching a weight heavier than your firstborn—you probably have arm flab.

On the leading edge of Boomerville, I have noted the growth of these blubbery bundles for years.

Arm flab doesn’t just happen all at once, you see. It sneaks up on you. Slowly, a drooling, toothy parasite waiting for a unsuspecting host. Think of it as mistletoe on the oak tree of youth.

Now, as things go, some might say worrying about arm flab is just vanity. If it’s not raining, no one’s shooting at you, and you can still see your toes, why should you complain about a little skin-sheathed fatty tissue drooping downward?

We know why, boomer buds, we know…

Flabby arms are one of the first markers that our youth has vaporized on the vine, that we’re scooching past middle age, speeding to grannyville, and heading for the big flabfest in the sky.

Face it! We’re gonna die with arm flab! But in the meantime, there’s life to contend with. And seasons. Like summer. Curses on summer! It’s hot. You want to wear sleeveless dresses and tops, be comfortable, be cool. You can’t help yourself

But you pay a price.

Wave to a friend on the other side of the room and your arm flab undulates for five minutes, hypnotizing innocent bystanders who can’t help but stare at the mesmerizing mass.

Eating out? Careful… Rest your arm on the table and someone might mistake it for pork loin. Or a great floundering halibut. Watch out for that fork!

God, could I be incubating baby aliens in there? Nah….

But there is no denying it. Arm flab, boomer babes, is here to stay. It’s the Angst of Aging, the Bane of Boomerville, the Curse of Cronedom.

Like Death and Taxes, Arm Flab is going to get you, so we might as well accept it. If you can’t fight it, flaunt it!

So hold your arms up high and say “Yes, my name is ______ and I have arm flab!”

Do not go quietly into the arm flab night. Wave! Wave those arms. Wave them proudly. Flash the flesh in the old lady sisterhood salute. Greet your fellow flabettes with pride. We are not ashamed.

Flaunt that flab!

It’s either that or those dang exercises.

Category: Baby Boomers