Flapping in the Breeze

The other day as I was exercising, I caught a terrifying glimpse of my upper arm.

It jiggled. 

In spite of the fact I've been working hard to build up muscle, there it was, the skin flapping all around like a chicken wing, all with a mind of its own.

To add insult to injury, I also noticed my skin has taken on a crepe-like texture.

When did all this happen? Five minutes ago, I was 30 years old, living in the Washington, DC area, with a great job and a workspace with a view of the Potomac. 

Now I'm...my mom.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. I love my mom, and I miss her every day. I'm heartbroken she and my dad won't be there to see my son get married. (Although I'm convinced they'll be there in spirit, they wouldn't miss it.)

Do I hear whispers of karma? Yes, I do.

Back in my youth, when the temps were warm and my mom wore sleeveless blouses, I would gently poke the flesh under her arm and watch it wobble. I'd chuckle and duck as my mom flung out her arm and said something threatening. 

Payback is...well, you know.

My errant arms make me think of my mom and what an a-hole I was. Let this be a lesson to all you youngsters out there who think it's a gas to poke fun at old folks. It will come back to haunt you one day.

Not that behaving yourself will matter in the least. In years to come, you, too, will have a wattle beneath your neck. Your knees will creak. And even though you may be forever 30 in your heart, your body will betray you.

All this will not stop me from dancing at my son's wedding. The one advantage to being my age is I can get away with making an ass of myself because young people think it's cute when old folks do awkward things like try to dance the watusi. 

As if they know what the watusi is.

Go ahead, kids. Look it up in the encyclopedia. At the library.

I double dog dare you.