The Unbearable Downwardness of Gravity

Word has it that Nora Ephron has been feeling bad about her neck lately. All I have to say is, “Boo-hoo.” I saw a picture of her in a New Yorker article over the summer, and if the state of her neck is her biggest beef, I’ll trade places with her tomorrow. I want to IM her a mouthful or two of invective, write her a tsk-tsk email with pissed-off emoticons pasted all over it. How dare this stunning, successful woman, who at sixty-something looks like she’s still got the world by the you-know-whatsits, complain about her neck? She should come over for coffee and get a gander at the kind of indignity that gravity and middle-age can inflict on an unsuspecting schmuck like me.

I blame gravity for just about every physical inconvenience I’ve suffered since having kids; every embarrassment (ever farted during yoga class despite your tightest tight-ass efforts?); every shift in my weight or mood. Pregnancy and childbirth may have contributed some here and there, but gravity is the real bad guy. It sneaks up and shoves us down the hill, when we’d rather stroll and enjoy the view. My body’s battle with Public Enemy Number One began around my 40th birthday. I knew something was up when, one night, my husband and I were out to dinner, and I couldn’t read the menu. The letters were too small, I said. Did they really expect people to be able to decipher microscopic print by candlelight? My husband, who is as blind as Mr. Magoo, rolled his eyes at me, held up his menu across the table and said, “Read this.” I rattled off every dish like a pro. Turned out the problem wasn’t the menu, it was my arm. Not long enough.

What did gravity have to do with my nascent far-sightedness? Something, I was sure. It was probably tugging on my tired, overworked eye muscles. Anyway, I broke down and got half-moons with bumblebee frames. Granny glasses, I moaned. No, no, said a male friend of mine. Sexy glasses. Librarian-sexy. The kind of specs that you fling across the room when you take the pins out of your luxurious, swirling mane of chestnut hair. Right. I learned to keep the glasses hidden, but handy. If only glasses were the worst of it…

A year later, I was looking in the mirror and saw that one breast was lower than the other. Way lower. Wait, they were BOTH lower. My once perky girls looked more like a pair of war-weary veterans. They weren’t just sagging; they were further south than Miami. What’s worse, after showering I had to lift each one up and dry underneath. Still do. If I don’t, I am sure mold would probably start growing there. Now every day brings a new discovery of droop somewhere on my body. My butt cheeks are distinctly more oblong than round, and I’ve recently noticed a slight, insidious overhang around my jaw line. Not extra flesh, just flesh stretching downward, reaching for the ground despite itself, unable to resist the siren call of gravity. What’s next? Wattles where my triceps used to be? Liver spots? Crow’s feet? Knees without caps? Saggy eyelids? Longer hair?

Maybe I’ll just email Nora Ephron and get her personal trainer’s number.