Ode to Decrepitude

As I “mature,” I find there’s less and less of me I want to expose to public view. It’s a recurring issue as summer approaches each year. There are remedies: exercise, cosmetic surgery (really—costs $8,000—I heard it on the radio), camouflage. Do you just not want to bother? 

I could grouch about the inequity of it all—that a man can exercise once a week for five minutes and have a buff bod. Jane Fonda notwithstanding, it doesn’t work like that for us women.

I will not accept this lying down. No, I’ll sing about it! Bring it on, mean, old, sexist, Father Time! Here is my Ode to Decrepitude (sung to the tune of Blowin’ in the Wind, by Bob "Buff Bod” Dylan):

How many reps does a gal have to do

Before she-ee looks like Michelle?

Yes, and how many pounds do-oo I have to lift,

So my body stops looking like hell?

This hurts—oh my God—how much can I endure?

I think I will just sit a spell.

These triceps, my friend, are blowin’ in the wind

My triceps are blowin’ in the wind.

Yes, and why am I here with these hot little babes?

Suffer-i-ing their long, gawking stares?

What did I sign? Can I cancel it still?

When there’s no guarantee and…who cares?

Oops, was that your foot, oh so sorry, my dear

I guess now they’ll want me to leave.

These triceps, my friend, are blowin’ in the wind

My triceps are blowin’ in the wind.

Yes, and I won’t accept that I’m over the hill

No-o, surely, there must be a pill.

Well, I still have my mind

But perhaps not for long.

The answer, my friend…What was the question?

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Thanks to my friend, Jeanne-Marie Baker, who remarked to me that her triceps really do “blow in the wind.”

Clip art credit: Themarketplacejournal.com