My hands cramp, fingers arching backward.
Arthritis. Two Advil daily.
My lower back aches, stooping my spine.
My arches continue their path to flat.
It feels like betrayal this revolt.
I was supple and graceful once upon a time.
First a disco queen and then a yoga diva.
This revolt surprises me.
The me that was me that will always
be me is still there.
But aging and menopause have not been kind to me.
I tell the young’uns not to get old ---
there’s no future in it.
My arm wattles jiggle when I do goddess pose.
Oh, how I wanted something to jiggle when I was 13.
Unnaturally thin for most of my life,
I longed for hips and breasts.
I had neither until the hot flashes were spent.
This extra weight is foreign to me.
There doesn’t seem to be a map for this territory.
I am frequently besmirched by the
indignities of old age.
The beginnings of incontinence,
dull dry brittle hair,
my oily skin suddenly flaky and wrinkled.
But the acne has persisted.
I buy moisturizer and acne remedies.
I’ve quit wearing eyeliner.
The crepe underneath my eyes
prevents a straight line.
My beloved shoes languish in the closet.
My balance precarious --
four-inch heels may be my past.
This menopause cleavage astounds me.
Oh, how I had longed for breasts and
now am plagued by underwire.
This revolt aggravates me.
My visage in the mirror a shock.
Who is that woman?
I feel weighed down by this body in revolt,
but I practice yoga and I continue to dance.
My spirit intact.
The me that was me that will always be me
is still there.
In revolt against the revolt.