Summertime has arrived bringing with it unnerving scantily clad twenty somethings. These Twiggy-esque Victoria Secret swimsuit wearing supermodel lookalikes wouldn’t agitate me quite so much strutting around with half their butt cheeks hanging out if they weren’t laying poolside obsessing over how their perfectly sculpted abs were horrendously fat. They want to see fat rolls? Give me about half an hour to wrangle my body out of this tummy minimizing Miracle-suit one piece that’s cutting off the oxygen supply to my brain and I’ll show these gals with six-pack abs what someone sporting a case looks like.

Holding up the latest issue of Cosmo, these sun kissed creatures sit guzzling full fat, full sugar Frappacinnos without repercussions griping about how their perky bosoms are saggy and disgusting because they fail the magazine’s standard perkiness test, the pencil test. Meanwhile, I sit drinking sugar-free, fat-free, plain old water pondering how low on the perkiness scale one is if she fails the Crayola Crayon Deluxe 64 Pack test and whether or not Blue Cross Blue Shield recognizes said test as medically relevant.

Pulling out mirrors, the delusional darlings are consumed by how old and wretched their skin looks with age spots? Are they smoking crack? Where I’m from those are called freckles! Let me tell you about old skin; I’ve got it. Skin that bruises every time the wind blows, forehead lines that I could plant row crops in, and hands that are starting to look eerily similar to my mother’s. Lean in sweetheart, I’ll show you age spots, right after I dot your eye!

Suck it up, you lucky young morons! Don’t spend your twenties obsessing over your body. Take it from me. As a woman rapidly approaching my 40’s, I wish I would have enjoyed the body of my teens and early twenties and not been so overly critical to the point I felt uncomfortable in my own skin.

Far removed from my twenties, I am a woman careening toward forty faster than I’d like and not happy with the whole aging process in general. Saturday morning, I threw on a tank top and headed to spin class. I don’t know why I wore that tank. I hate my arms and feel like a line backer for the 49ers in a sleeveless shirt but it’s summer and that spin room gets suffocatingly hot so I threw caution to the wind and donned a racer back tank.

There I sat in spin class pumping my legs so furiously on the bike causing the fat on my triceps to flap so hard against my sides I thought I might just airlift right off the bike. Why did I wear this darn tank? I felt ridiculous and got more of a workout trying to minimize the flapping of my jiggling triceps than anything else.

As we got off the bikes to stretch, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Where had the girl of my early twenties gone? Nothing about me remotely resembled the girl who used to lay poolside in a hot pink and purple zebra striped two piece.

“I wish I had arms like yours. Your skin is so tight and smooth.”

“Huh?” I heard Robert Dinero’s voice in my head as I clumsily replied, “You, you talking to me?”

A sixty something year old woman in class was complimenting my arms. Arms that to her were young, firm, and muscular not fat and flabby.

I looked down at my arms and for the first time, they didn’t look so bad.

Isaiah 46:4 And even to your old age I am he; and even to gray hairs will I carry you: I have made, and I will bear; even I will carry, and will deliver you.image