Hating My Arms

My best friend Eva and I both celebrated milestone birthdays within the last couple of weeks.

We were chatting on the phone, deciding to get together for a celebratory glass of wine. The subject of aging came up. More to the point, the effects of aging on our body. 


“I’ve noticed changes over the last six months.” 

“Me too.” 

“My arms are crepey” 

“I have bat wings.” 

“I don’t know whether to start wearing cap sleeves or not care.” 


Here’s the thing. What are your arms for? They hug. Carry groceries and cuddle grandchildren. They wave hello and goodbye. Play instruments and for me, help hold a microphone.

If I had guns for arms, would they be any more functional? No. Would my hugs be more loving? Would more muscles help me play the piano better? No. 

So why do we beat ourselves up for not looking like a 20-year-old? So many people don’t get the privilege of living to the age of you or me. If they had the choice of living and having a flabby arm, they’d take it. 

So instead of covering yourself up and telling yourself, your body doesn’t measure up. Why not show it some love? This is the only body you have – don’t you think it deserves some respect?

Happy Summer,