Each passing year my body parts stage a revolt. This happens like clockwork after each birthday.
Every year shortly before my birthday, my assorted body parts have a planning meeting to determine who is staging the annual revolt.
It goes something like this:
Chin: I am not budging another inch. I gave birth to twins four years ago. Count me out.
Neck: I have to hide from November through the end of December every year or risk being mistaken for a featherless turkey. I’m applying for the witness protection program.
Boobs: We’re not participating. There’s a shortage of wire and the lingerie sales clerk at Macy’s runs when she sees us coming.
Upper arms: We are tired from all that flapping in the breeze. She’s started to lift weights and we hurt. We’re claiming a medical exemption.
Abdomen: I retired after the birth of the third child. Take me out of the loop.
Butt: Don’t look at me. I slid halfway to her knees two years ago.
Thighs: Well I’m not leaving the house wearing all this cottage cheese.
Hair: Damn, It’s my turn. I can make life interesting for her.
Sure enough, the day after my recent birthday, my hair turned on me.
I don’t mind having white hair and I suppose I should be relieved I’m not bald, but I have curls!
I could do without the curls. I’m not a curls type of woman. Curls are not becoming on women of a certain age.
I purchased hair products Justin Bieber would kill to own. None of them solved my dilemma. In desperation, I went to my hairstylist who threw up her hands and informed me I’d just have to go with it.
My coiffure resembles a chrysanthemum.
I look like Mrs. Santa Claus in drag. I already had her shape.
I’ll bet my ears are just hanging around growing and growing and waiting for next year.
Categories: Biased, Unbalanced and Politically Incorrect
I am a lifelong Southerner, short story author, and essayist. Home is Dallas, Texas.
My essays have appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Writing.