The higher my number of years climb, the lower my body bits descend – some painfully slow, following the deadly pace of an antique grain elevator, others sinking fast like a stone. I’m not sure which speed is worse.
Gravity is pulling every inch of anything that dangles from my body down, down, down, whether it’s under-arm skin, under-eye bags, boobs, bladders, butts. It’s an equal opportunity punch in the face.
But Damn you, gravity. I see you even though I can’t. You may me invisible and have me surrounded, but I can fight back with an arsenal of skin firming ointments, tri-cep dips, long-sleeved shirts, concealer, and surgery. Gravity, schmavity.
And you know what else?
I’m going to use you for excuse number 7,349 to shop. I bought these Pierre Hardy Gravity boots to kick you in the ass as you make your way down. Give me all you’ve got, I’m ready.
And now please excuse me while I look for better lighting.