My Favorite Reads of 2013

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Before pneumonia took me down in December, I would consider 2013 a banner reading year for me. Mostly because, perhaps unfortunately, I wasn’t writing much fiction myself. Which is just fine. Because sometimes writers need to spend a long time soaking up the words others have written to get back to the reason we write in the first place.

I didn’t keep track, but I’m sure I read at least 100 books — some fiction, some nonfiction. And here are five of my favorites.

1. Tenth of December by George Saunders. This collection of short stories is literary perfection. Every word, every phrase, every sentence, every character, and every story seems to have meaning far beyond the first that comes to mind. It’s definitely a thinker’s story collection and not for anyone who wants a light, airy read. It’s honest and brutal and moving, and it’s one of those books that stays with you long after you’ve read it. It’s oh so good. It’s one I will buy in hardcover after having read it twice on my Kindle. This should be required reading for all writers of fiction. Maybe all writers in general. Maybe all readers.

2. Great Colorado Bear Stories by Laura Pritchett. I’ve been a fan of Laura’s since her first collection of short stories, Hell’s Bottom, Colorado. And I’m also very interested in bears, since I have lived among them in the Colorado mountains for 12 years now. But I think anyone who is curious about wildlife, and the interaction between humans and wildlife, will enjoy it. The book is full of nonfiction research and first-hand accounts of bear encounters. It’s written in a way that engages and makes what could be a dry topic instead a book I couldn’t put down. If you like Craig Childs’ work, you’ll enjoy this book.

3. Dirty Love by Andre Dubus III. Another fiction collection, this one touted as “four not-quite-novella-length stories.” I absolutely loved these stories, all of them about relationships and people who are on the cusp of something. The stories hurl you into the characters’ minds so completely that you truly care about them, even with all their flaws, and, in comparison to Saunders’ work, you don’t even think about the words or language used. You just HAVE to know what happens to these people. (However, the writing is near brilliant, too.) I’d love to see any of these stories made into a full novel. If you liked House of Sand and Fog by Dubus, you’ll enjoy this collection.

4. Judging a Book by Its Lover: A Field Guide to the Hearts and Minds of Readers Everywhere by Lauren Leto. This was a fun, nonfiction keeper. It’s from the woman who cofounded the humor blog, Texts From Last Night, while she was in law school. But the book grew out of her other blog (no longer up, I don’t think) called Book Porn. This book is hilarious, particularly for college English majors and all-around book nerds like me. Here’s how the publisher described it, and I agree: “… [It’s] like a literary Sh*t My Dad Says—an unrelentingly witty and delightfully irreverent guide to the intricate world of passionate literary debate, at once skewering and celebrating great writers, from Dostoevsky to Ayn Rand to Jonathan Franzen, and all the people who read them.”

5. Hyperbole and a Half: Unfortunate Situations, Flawed Coping Mechanisms, Mayhem, and Other Things That Happened by Allie Brosh. Another blogger turned book-writer, Brosh got her book deal based on her blog, Hyperbole and a Half. So be sure to check out the blog to see if you can handle her type of writing, which is a hybrid form of words and illustrations and more words. But mostly, it’s hilarious. And insightful. And true. Not just to her life, but probably to your own. My favorite chapters were the ones where she delves into the minds of her dogs (so funny!) and the ones where she describes depression for those who have never experienced it (spot on.)

What was your favorite read of 2013?


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Hemingway. Barbie. Therapy. Mother Teresa. You Know You Want to Read This.

* Special promotional note: I used Grammarly to grammar check this post, because proofreading my own work is for sissies. Kidding. Kinda.  

* Special non-promotional note: This article first appeared in the awesome The Write Life magazine earlier this year. Reprinted here with permission. If you’re a writer, I highly recommend this cutting-edge, digital publication.

Now, on to the actual post. I wrote this in response to the question:  Why do you write?

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This is Ernest Hemingway. (public domain photo)
This is Ernest Hemingway. (public domain photo)

 Ernest Hemingway once said that there’s nothing to writing; all you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. E.B. White was quoted as saying that writing is not only hard work, but also fairly bad for your health.

And even though Hemingway was likely drunk when he was quoted and White can’t really be trusted because of the whole talking pig thing, there is some truth to their words.

As a professional writer with 25 years of experience (obviously, I began writing in utero), I agree that writing can be a soul-wrenching thing. After all, writing means staying up until 3 a.m. to finish a chapter you’re working on, even when you have to get up at 6 a.m. for Real Life. It’s revising and revising until your corneas get angry at you. It’s putting your words out into the universe only to have one reader simply comment, “Meh,” in a one-star review on Amazon.

So why would any sane person do it? Why do we writers continue to put pen to paper and fingers to keyboard when we could be watching Downtown Abbey or Duck Dynasty instead?

For some of my writer friends, the need to write is like the need to breathe air. Others say they write mostly because they love to tell a good story, and the world needs more good stories.

Me? Well, I think it comes down to three factors.

1)  I write because it’s not socially acceptable for me to play with Barbie dolls anymore. Even though I was a tomboy in every other way possible growing up in a ranching family in South Texas — with the scars to prove it — there was one “girly” thing I loved. And while the feminist in me today reels at the thought, here it is: I loved to play with Barbie. And Skipper and Ken. Only I renamed them Cherry, Hayley and Holden, respectively.

This is Barbie. (photo from Mattel)

This is a headless Barbie.

That’s right. I played with plastic girls with sparkly tube-tops and unrealistic 38-18-34 measurements. But unlike a lot of Barbie fans, I didn’t care what she looked like, or what dresses she wore. I didn’t envy her twist-n-turn hips, blonde hair or blue eyes.

To me, Barbie was a mere tool for my vivid (and probably not quite normal) imagination. I put those dolls in situations no doll in the history of dolls would ever want to be in. They were probably praying every night for Mattel to come and put them out of their misery.

The stories I created were soap-opera-level in intensity. There was illicit activity going on in the broken elevator shaft in the Dream House. It wasn’t unusual for miniature furniture to be thrown in anger from the penthouse. There was a scene involving beautifully crocheted clothes (made by my unsuspecting grandmother) being torn off in passion. (Note to Mom: I watched Showtime when you weren’t looking.)

Now that I’m a grownup — or at least pretend to be one — I still have the same crazy imagination, and stories still pop into my head all the time. Only now, I pour the drama into short stories, novels and other types of writing.

I think Cherry, Hayley and Holden would be pleased.

2)  I write because I can’t afford therapy. Most writers I know aren’t necessarily rolling in the dough. Yet we tend to have varying degrees of tormented inner lives that make us great candidates for therapy. So for me, writing is a great, zero-percent-down alternative.

In all seriousness, writing is how I try to make sense of the world. It’s how I deal with my constant restlessness. It’s how I delve into my past and figure out my place in the here and now. It’s how I deal with the ugliness and goodness out there, and inside.

Through placing characters at tough crossroads, I can consider how I would react in that same circumstance. Through placing characters in situations I have actually been in before, I can work through what I could’ve done differently, and how that would’ve played out. And I can help those characters find strength and courage and humor when life becomes one hot mess.

This is therapy.

This is therapy.

I can even face my fears — and write my way through it all until I see light at the end of tunnel, or at least until I can get it ALL OUT and move on.

Sure, I could spend months in a therapist’s office and come to all the same conclusions. But you’re not allowed to drink copious amounts of vodka at a counseling appointment, are you? Plus, writing doesn’t demand a copay.

3) I write because I want to make a difference. (Cue the We Are the World music now.) Throughout my childhood and in college, I always believed I would one day do something important that would help make the world a better place. Basically, I wanted to be a kick-ass combination of Susan B. Anthony, Mother Teresa and Ann Richards.

This is Mother Teresa.

This is Mother Teresa.

After college, I took up causes. I was knee-deep in political campaigns and volunteering for activist organizations. I was working at animal shelters and marching for better elder care.

And I was frustrated.

I felt like I was scratching on a well-trodden, muddy surface, and any difference I’d made was quickly gone when the next rain hit.

Today, I still do some of those activism things. But I also understand that through the effective use of language and storytelling, I can sometimes reach readers in a pretty darn deep place — a place where thoughts and ideas linger long enough for questions to be raised, and a search for answers to begin.

In fact, when a reader tells me that my work has touched them somehow, and made them think about something a little bit longer than they would have otherwise, that’s when I know that what I’m doing with my life — this whole writing thing — does matter.

After all, books and stories and poems have been known to change lives, you know. And if my work can trigger just one little change in just one person, then, well, it’s worth it.

* The following words are registered trademarks: Amazon, Downtown Abbey, Duck Dynasty, Barbie, Mattel, Showtime, and probably some others I’m failing to mention. Please don’t sue me. Refer to #2 above.


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Things That Happen to Me That Don’t Happen to Other People

You know how most people lose socks? That’s how I lose bras. Yes, bras.

I think it’s because I’m always taking them off. Which sounds like I’m a floozy-ho-slut (technical term), but really it just means I hate wearing them, so I tend to rip those suckers off the moment I think I no longer need an over-the-shoulder boulder-holder. (Thanks for the term, Judy Blume.) That might include in my car, my office, the kitchen, the backyard … you get the picture.

So they just … disappear.

olga bra

This is the bra that is missing. If you find it, please return immediately.

Right now, I have misplaced for several weeks my only beige-colored bra. That means I only have black bras to choose from, and one very bright red one with polka dots that hasn’t fit me since 1998. It also means that every time I dress for the world, I have to consider what shirt will work with a black bra. (Because I’m too cheap to go buy a new beige one when I KNOW the other one will turn up soon. And since I’m not really a floozy-ho-slut, I don’t want my black bra showing through my shirts. At least not all the time.)

This also means that half of my wardrobe is unwearable right now. And this means that I have to think too much in the mornings, which I try not to do.

This all leads up to one night this week when I was getting ready to go to see Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band in concert. I was choosing what to wear and of course did not have the aforementioned BEIGE bra. But I really, really wanted to wear a cute blouse that required a BEIGE bra.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided that going braless to a concert wasn’t a bad thing.

I mean, women do it all the time, right? At least they do at Willie Nelson concerts; there are usually tube-tops involved.

A rare moment on Willie's bus (not). I love the Internet.

A rare moment on Willie’s bus (not). I love the Internet.

Now maybe those women aren’t as, errr, well-endowed as me, but it’s a thing. People do it. Besides, I just knew Bob Seger would be able to FEEL the overwhelming presence of my braless boobies from onstage. They would inspire him.

That’s how I came to be talking to a couple of guys at the concert who were seated in front of me who will very likely never forget me.

You see, I was leaning over a bit to talk because they were BELOW me, and the sleeve of my blouse caught the edge of the arm of my seat. Which shall we say pulled the fabric a bit (a lot) to the left. Which in turn caused a gap. Which in turn gave these lovely men a tumbling sort-of-oh-my-god-there’s-a-large-dangling boobie right-in-front-of-me kind of view.

We’re not talking flashing a little side boob here. There may or may not have been  nipple involved.

I really hadn’t noticed anything was askew at first. Because I’d had a few adult beverages by this point. I was digging some “Turn the Page,” and I thought these two old hippie men were just really interested in my witty conversation.

But then I began to note that my chest was not the area where my witty conversation was emitting from, and yet that area was where they appeared to be focusing their attention.

I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this point. I think I said something like, “Oh, wow, would you look at that?”

In retrospect, I should have just said, “It’s for Bob,” and left it at that.

It was probably in reality only a second of a flash. But I have learned my lesson now: Don’t try to make witty conversation after several adult beverages. It’s not worth it.

It was all for you, Bob.

It was all for you, Bob.

 


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Sledding Fail … With a Texas Accent

Like most moms of six-year-olds, I am constantly laughing at the things my son does and says. I feel like I should be following him around with a video camera every day just to capture and preserve all of the funny antics. (Perhaps to pull out and remember how cute he was when he’s a teenager and testing my last nerve.)

Luckily, my husband is a video-ing nut case and often DOES film our son. Such was the case this past weekend when a great snowstorm dumped a ton of fresh powder, and the kiddo decided to go sledding in the back yard.

The following video was the last take of many, where the kiddo was performing in his own version of the X Games, complete with commentary after each sled run. In this last run, he catches some air. But what’s even funnier is his Texas accent when he’s talking to his viewers afterward.

Have I mentioned this kid visits Texas quite a lot but has been raised in the Colorado mountains? I don’t know where he gets this drawl from.


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Valentine’s Day in Colorado vs. Valentine’s Day in Texas

Valentine’s Day in Colorado:
images

 

 

 

 

Skiing Couples Wed Atop Colorado's Loveland Ski Area

 

 

 

 

 

Valentine’s Day in Texas:

582833_4555202884599_352410011_n

 

 

 

 

 

 

plastic-cattle-dna_1

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Both are pretty darn good, eh?


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Comment and You Could Win! Who Is Your Favorite Character in Blue Straggler?

I recently visited with another book group that read Blue Straggler, and I always love it when I hear how animated and passionate readers are about the characters in the novel.

This particular conversation revolved around Adam and Rudy — two very different male characters in the story — and which one of the two was more likeable as a long-term romantic interest for Bailey (and for the book group members …).

And then one of the members asked me who MY favorite character in the novel is. That’s a pretty tough question. After all, I created them all and they lived in my head with me for a very long time before the story was complete and out in the world. It’s kind of like asking me which of the many dogs I’ve had in my life is my favorite. I’ve loved them all in different ways. I can’t pick. Ever.

I will say, however, that I plan to write a sequel to Blue Straggler, and Rudy will have a big part in it. Because I think I might miss him the most.

Now – your turn. If you read Blue Straggler, comment below and let me know which character in the novel was your favorite and why. I’ll choose a winner based on which comment I like the best. (I’m queen of this little world/blog, you know.)

Best part: Winner will receive a signed paperback copy of Blue Straggler – in its original 2012 cover (those are in limited supply, baby!)

Now, don’t let me down. Comment away!

Here’s a recap of the some of the characters for you:

Bailey — Directionless female protagonist approaching 30; uses self-deprecating humor to deal with life; enjoys Cool Whip and alcohol on frequent occasions; can’t keep a relationship longer than it takes milk to expire in the fridge

Rudy — Bailey’s best friend since college at Texas A&M; will kick your ass at Jeopardy; Bad at dating and financial management.

Idamarie — The third and oldest member of the friendship triangle; shells out good diner food and mostly good advice. Fourth-generation Texas woman with the hair and sass to prove it.

Adam — Moody mountain man with a beat-up Jeep and heart, plus a lot of dogs and a barn for rent.

Francis — Coffee shop owner and Bailey’s first friend in Colorado. Nice Southern accent.

Stella — Feisty mail carrier and mayor of Gold Creek, Colorado. Don’t look at her prosthetic ear.

Tuck — Tow truck driver, originally from Texas, now living in Gold Creek. Has a Jesus bobblehead on his dash.

Bailey’s Mother — Enjoys throwing backyard parties and yard sales, and berating Bailey. Co-owner of family’s fiberglass cow business.

Bailey’s Father — Rancher. Values beer, old outlaw country, gambling, and good dogs.

Lawrence — Librarian with Skills.

Weasel – Bailey’s cat she believes is out to get her.

Willie and Waylon – Bailey’s family’s dogs

WHO WILL YOU CHOOSE?


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Different Reactions to a Big Cat Sighting

mountain lion

And by Big Cat, I mean THIS.

 

 

 

 

 

My latest observation …

Denver Foothills people: Wow, a mountain lion. How big? Male or female? Adult or juvenile? Be sure to knock on your neighbors’ doors to tell them. Bring your dogs and children inside for two weeks. Be on the lookout and report all evidence!

Colorado Mountain people: Yep. Heard him last week on my roof at 2 a.m. Went outside, heard him hiss at me, went back to bed.

Texas people: Honey, where’s the camera and my gun?

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By the way, I wrote about my own encounter with a mountain lion once for my now-defunct online mountain living column. Here’s an excerpt, for posterity.

I think I’ll always remember his stare. His black-brown eyes locked on the front end of my car and didn’t flinch. The muscles along his jaw moved, but his face and eyes did not. He didn’t glance away, not once. His ears didn’t move, either, as I thought they might. His tail was black-tipped and as long as his body, and it switched back and forth, as he seemed to be considering his options. It reminded me of how a house cat might swish his tail before pouncing on a toy mouse. I actually wondered at one point if he might lunge toward my Subaru.

His face was sharp and angular and surprisingly small compared to the rest of his body. A black line continued from his nose to his mouth, and combined with his long whiskers, he looked like he had a thin, handle-bar mustache. His stance was slightly crouched as he looked at me, his sleek body lines sloping to the back feet. He was wary of me, but there was definitely a sense that he was in control.

It seemed like five minutes or so that we stared each other down. I thought about fumbling for my camera phone, but that seemed somehow wrong. Besides, one movement on my part would have shortened our time together, I think.

Finally, with a swift decision, he leaped from the right side of the two-lane road to the left. And in one long and graceful jump, muscles rippling under his tawny fur, he disappeared into the brush and trees leading to the creek behind our home.

Afterward, as I continued along the road toward our house, I shivered a bit, literally, thinking of all the times my husband, son and I have walked that same path along the creek. Had he been there any of those times, after grabbing a drink from the water, watching us? Swishing that tail?

In some ways, I kind of hope so. After all, he’s one of us.

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[photo credit – St. Mary’s College of California]


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Update on My Crack Addition (Dr Pepper)

It’s been three weeks now, and I’ve had only one Dr Pepper in a moment of weakness. And here’s the thing. It’s not getting easier! I still crave it like crack. When will this end? I need a patch. (And it’s a helluva good thing I never got addicted to Virginia Slims.)

Current Problems of Life Without Dr Pepper (not an exhaustive list):

Eating a burger today without Dr Pepper was like eating warm, freshly baked bread without real butter. It just shouldn’t be done.

Dr Pepper is a connection to home; it’s the national drink of Texas (unofficial). Without it, I’m a tad bit unanchored. And trust me, no one wants to be around me when I’m unanchored.

Coke is not a substitute. Neither is Root Beer. And don’t get me started on juice.

Water tastes like … nothing. Adding lemon makes it takes like lemon-nothing.

Coffee makes me speak really fast in meetings and pee too often. And I can’t drink it past 5 p.m. or I’m up all night craving Dr Pepper (and peeing).

Tea tastes like grass. Not the good kind.

I’m having to go to bed early just to keep myself from going to the SitNBull Saloon down the street to get a take-out Dr Pepper from the mean biker-bartender. Note: I don’t even think they have takeout cups, but I could bring my own. The biker-bartender would love that, I’m sure. I can see the look on his face right now.

Drinking vodka and wine at the same levels as I was drinking Dr Pepper is not advised by the American Medical Association.

My old stand-by comfort foods just aren’t the same without my refreshing, fizzy DP. Now, when someone asks, you want to go to Noodles? How about a bowl of chili? I say, eh.

The real kicker? My husband has quit Dr Pepper, too. And weight is dropping off him like <insert good metaphor I can’t think of right now>. Me? I’m gaining weight. Because in my sick little head, if I can’t have DP, then I’m damn sure gonna have pie and peanut butter.


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How to Stop Drinking Dr Pepper in Five Days

Dr Pepper

Day 1

Announce to your six-year-old child and husband that you are finally going to kick your crack habit. Ask for their loving, non-enabling support. Tell them, with their help, your body will be pure once again! Tell them this isn’t like those 12 other times you’ve tried to quit. And tell them you are way stronger now — and not to think of that unfortunate time back in 2010. Post to Facebook and graciously accept sincere congratulations from friends across the nation. Post to Twitter and get several replies from high fructose corn syrup fanatics.

Day 2 – A.M.

Order a grande, double-shot mocha at Starbucks because you deserve it after not drinking Dr Pepper all day yesterday. And you need the caffeine to ward off the withdrawal headache. This is going to be a good day!

Day 2 – P.M.

Drink a glass of wine (health benefits) for dinner instead of your usual Dr Pepper on ice. Drink another glass of wine to congratulate yourself on being so health-focused. Drink another and decide the evening walk can wait; you’d rather watch HGTV.

Day 3 – A.M.

Try to convince yourself that Honey Green Tea really is just fine. It’s great! Really great. Sip it in gratitude.

Day 3 – P.M.

Beg husband to drive to a neighborhood café and get you a Coke. Not a Dr Pepper because that would be wrong. But just a Coke. You know, to get you through the crisis. Even heroin addicts get help coming off, right? Offer unmentionable favors in return. When he refuses, search the Internet for cheap divorce lawyers.

Day 4 – A.M.

Stop for gas at a convenience store on your way to work. Figure it won’t hurt to have one very small fountain drink of Dr Pepper to ease the developing headache and quiet the shakes. Make plans to hide all evidence of the purchase from husband and son by carefully disposing of receipt and cup. Learn the Dr Pepper dispenser is out of order. Say a curse word so loud people in the store look at you. Take a deep breath. Consider it a sign from the Universe, put down the cup, and walk away. Exhibit pride for your determination to beat high fructose corn syrup at its own evil game. Go through a drive-thru and get a bacon-egg burrito because it is now justified.

Day 4 – Noonish

Experience withdrawal irritation at maximum levels. When a man bumps into you while talking on his cell phone in the kitchen at work and does not even acknowledge the invasion of your personal space, resist the urge to yank the phone from his hand and toss it in the trashbin. Instead, give him a nasty look and walk away. Stare longingly at the Cold Drinks! vending machine on your way back to your desk.

Day 4 – 2 P.M.

Drink a lot of water and announce to your coworkers that you are on Day 5 of the New You. Then realize it is only sadly Day 4. Decide to take a break to get more fancy coffee, which likely has more high fructose corn syrup in it than a Dr Pepper. Argue vehemently with people on Twitter for no good reason about the People’s Choice Awards. Envision them drinking Dr Pepper and hate them even more. Tell them so in 140 characters or less.

Day 4 – 3 P.M.

Sext husband in hopes he will change his mind about buying Dr Pepper at the store. Get no response.

Day 4 – 5 P.M.

Repeat “I will not stop at Sonic. I will not stop at Sonic.” to yourself 20 times while driving home. Fight back road rage during worse-than-usual traffic. Listen to meditation music to soothe your soul, which is going through withdrawal, too. Flip out when there is no wine in the house for dinner. Read “If You Give a Dog a Donut,” to your son at bedtime and begin to think of writing your own book called, “If You Give Me a Dr Pepper, I’ll Lick Your Face for Free.” Hope your mom isn’t reading any blog posts you write about this.

Day 5 – A.M.

Post to Twitter that the first person to bring you a Dr Pepper over Sonic ice wins a million dollars. (Void where prohibited.) Ignore snarky responses. Lie to spouse about the reason you need to run down to the neighborhood café. When he doesn’t fall for it, have a really positive discussion about how you can fight this together. Cross your fingers behind your back when he’s not looking.

Day 5 – Noon

Throw bottled water at spouse when he suggests it for lunch. Then sit down, drink the water, write a post for your blog, and know, for sure, that you’ve really kicked it for good this time. After all, five days is a long time. Eat Bottlecaps candy while writing blog post. Make plans to buy a 12-pack tonight.

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THIS Is 40, or You Are the Wind Beneath my Bat Wings

There are a lot of things people never tell you about hitting age 40 and beyond.

A blog just isn’t legitimate until there’s a picture of the Ropers in it.

Sure, I knew about the wrinkles and gray hair coming my way. I knew my eyesight would begin to worsen and I’d be shopping for Mrs. Roper-style-hanging-around-my-neck drugstore glasses at some point. And my doctor kept warning me about the “belly roll” that would collect and be hard to get rid of in my 40s. (Can’t they come up with another term for it? Like Lower Abdomen Memory Foam?)

But here’s what they don’t tell you. They don’t tell you that the pimples of your high school years will start coming back and your chin is gonna start to look like your freshman yearbook picture. For no apparent reason. They don’t tell you that your joints will start making sounds reminiscent of old, haunted-house hardwood floors. And it’s scary. Really scary.

This is what came up in an image search on Google for a “complicated outfit.”

They don’t tell you that those ads you used to laugh at that targeted women with a “sudden urge to urinate” might one day not be so funny, especially when you happen to be wearing an awesome, complicated outfit that, well, takes a while to remove.

And yes, they may have told me that my skin would one day fight back from the years of baby-oil tanning, but they sure as hell did not tell me that the fight would include having strange-looking skin tags frozen off my body in a dermatologist office once a year. Seriously, no one EVER mentioned the freezing machine. That thing burns like a mother.

But mostly, they didn’t tell me about bat wings.

Listen, I’ve never been especially proud of my arms, but they weren’t hideous before. A few scars and red scales, but fairly firm, I would say. After all, I can hold my own tossing cattle feed bags and I’m a master snow-shoveler. We’re talking heavy, wet spring mountain snow, too. Not any of this dry powdery two-inch stuff down here in the foothills. (Mountain snob alert.)

These are not my bat wings. Mine are way sexier.

Regardless, something has changed. I now have a layer of bonafide flab hanging down on each arm, flapping in the wind like sheets on a clothes line. And as sexy as that sounds, it’s upsetting.

The first time I noticed them I was putting my hair in a ponytail in front of a mirror and actually looked behind me to see if someone else was possibly standing there with their own bat wings. No such luck.

Of course, my first course of action was to look online to see if I was the only one that this was happening to so early in life. I mean, I thought bat wings were for women in their 60s. Turns out, they indeed start in your 40s, as “middle-aged skin is like cotton with less snap,” causing sagging.

First of all, WebMD, don’t call me middle-aged. And secondly, I want Spandex arms back.

Experts say you can do boot-camp-style tricep exercises to help, but not completely solve the problem. Which does not in any way sound encouraging or appealing. Plus, as Sweet Brown says, ain’t nobody got time for that.

You can also have upper-arm liposuction. But if I’m not going under the knife for the aforementioned lower abdomen memory foam, I’m not risking my life for my breeze-making upper arms.

I tell my son that I love my muffin top (which he so generously pointed out to me after seeing a weight-loss commercial one day. It’s a good thing he’s cute.). I tell him that it’s a souvenir from lots of good food and good times. But these bat wings? I don’t know that they represent anything but old age and the lack of funds and courage to hire Jillian Michaels to yell at me.

By the way (ATTENTION: stop reading here if you are easily offended!) when I googled “bat wings” during my research, I came upon a horrible discovery. Apparently, according to Urban Dictionary, there are other slang definitions for bat wings that have nothing to do with arms. They include but are not limited to:

  •  A woman’s large vaginal skin
  • The spreading and sticking of a man’s testicles to his inner thigh. This usually happens at random in summer and is caused by perspiration and must be physically unstuck.
  • When a female neglects grooming in the pubic region and wears a bikini.
  • One that I just cannot bring myself to type right now.

Nothing like a little Urban Dictionary to make you 1) gag and 2) feel even older than 40. You’re welcome.

And …. now … I don’t feel so bad about my arms for some reason. Maybe I’ll just buy me some Mrs. Roper tunics. You know you want some, too.


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