B is for Bat Wings


This aging thing seems slow, but I’m telling you, one morning I woke to be thirty-two years old and able to fly because of enormous sheets of flesh dangling from beneath my shoulders.
As you’ll note from this carefully, meticulously, dare-say-I perfect rendering of a woman’s human arm in comparison to that of an also-mammal-but-not-human bat, the resemblance is uncanny. Both winged creatures have five appendages dangling from the end of a large upper wing bone, and both have excessive sails attached to the rigging.
The bat needs to fly, of course; I got that.
But me? Not so much. Firstly, I’m afraid of heights, so there’s no reason I’d travel upward high enough and certainly no reason to ever ever ever jettison myself from any type of dizzying platform. Second most — is that a phrase? I feel like it is…or maybe I just like it and created it just now — see number Firstly.
As the great Kathleen Madigan, comedic delight of around my same age, wisely reported after asking her trainer about arm selvage (I don’t believe she used the term “bat wings,” though she might have), he said something along the lines of: “Mostly that shit is genetic.”
Pardon the swearing, but after consulting my own physical trainer — Google, who never pushes me too hard and never asks me to do more than I feel comfortable — my swearing was far worse. I’d asked for enlightenment on eliminating the wings sans surgery and, after many wrong turns and one last denial of any exercise course beginning with the words “30-Day Challenge,” I, too, had found no help and no hope, yet I’d lucked onto a great three-ingredient recipe for banana pudding. Yum.
You’d think if I were forced to have the wings, I could at least run through the Bat Menu and grab echolocation, because age has sucked away my eyesight, too. (See the soon-to-be-released codicil to this post titled: “B is also for Blindness.” ) But that was when I turned forty…or forty-one…maybe forty-two…
And I haven’t even mentioned the big Double B: the Belly Bulge.
Oh, heavens, that one’s just too depressing. We’ll move along.
Coming soon to this very blog: F is for Forgetting…and other Fun F-Words.