Thursday
Apr222010
The Bold And The Hulk-Armed, In Which Schmutzie, Our Intrepid Heroine, Foils An Evil Plot
Thursday, April 22, 2010
For most of my adult life, I have been unnecessarily preoccupied with the girth of my upper arms. While other people are concerned about whether the pants they are trying on make their butt look big, I'm the person hogging the dressing room's three-way mirror so that I can fully examine the arm to sleeve ratio of a new top.
my bicep, shot with the CameraBag iPhone app using the Helga setting and then run through the Lo-Mob app using the News Emulsion filter
I never went through that stretched out, skinny, string bean phase that a lot of girls go through before they fill out at puberty. I remained disappointingly proportional in every way, except for, I was certain, the gargantuan state of my upper arms.
You know how a lot of eleven-year-old girl arms look. They are thin and long and look like they can barely support their own weight. They're ridiculous. And I wanted arms like that in the worst way. I fervently wished that the sleeves on my t-shirts would hang away from my arms like theirs did instead of pulling snug against my skin. I was sure that my arms looked like encased sausages.
It only got worse, of course, because when everyone else matured and fleshed out, so did I, and so did my arms. Certain that my meaty appendages probably made up at least half my body weight, I tried weighing them on the bathroom scale at home. I stretched out on the bathroom floor with my arm laid across the scale and held up a pocket mirror with my other arm so that I could look at the numbers without applying extra pressure. It was important that the measurement be as accurate as possible.
Whatever the number was that popped up on the dial, it must have confirmed my worst fears, because, from that day forward, I tried faking having skinnier arms. I pulled at my shirt sleeves after they were washed so that they gripped my upper arms less forcefully. I adopted the habit of standing with my arms slightly akimbo in an effort to keep them from mashing out even wider against my sides. I did push-ups every day to keep my burgeoning flesh under some kind of control.
Nothing worked, of course. My arms remained what my arms were genetically programmed to be, and I cursed my strong, Mennonite ancestors for their legacy. I was sure that my arms would be the things that kept me from being beautiful when I grew up. Dark shirts with long sleeves became my camouflage.
Since the early days of my pathology, my arms have caused a handful embarrassing moments, like that time when I was on a date and I reached across the table only to have my bicep tear the seam on my sleeve or that time I tried on one of those tissue-weight summer tops and my arms broke through the fabric like I was a paler, pinker version of The Hulk. HULK NO LIKE SHIRT! HULK SMASH!
Despite my childhood fear that my specific form of gigantism would keep me from beauty and love and success of any kind, I have managed just fine. I make it through the day-to-day bravely flaunting my ginormous upper limbs in short sleeves. (I've found that it relieves some of the excess weight to keep them free of extra material.) I let them out in the sun without worrying about blinding an unsuspecting bystander with their acres of whiteness. I have even taken to moisturizing them in order to maintain what aesthetic qualities they do possess.
Yesterday, though, my upper arms made me want to cry. Not since elementary school have they so tried to undermine my self-esteem.
I was in a dressing room trying on a top. It is not uncommon for the sleeves of a fitted top to be snug on my upper arms, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. Hope springs eternal. I put my arms through the sleeves and was just pulling it over my head when I started to panic. I had not even pulled the shirt on all the way and I was already stuck. I looked in the mirror and stopped breathing as I took in the horror displayed before me.
MY ARMS WERE BEING PINCHED INTO LINKS NOT UNLIKE SAUSAGES HANGING IN BUTCHER SHOP'S WINDOW.
I stood there with my arms bound over my head, suddenly fully aware that the only thing standing between me and absolute public embarrassment was a thin curtain. I took a few deep breaths and scanned my brain for a plan.
I remembered how hand models hold their hands over their heads before a shoot to minimize the appearance of veins. I suspected that the same principle might help to drain extra blood from my arms and, therefore, decrease their size.
"You can do this," I said to myself.
And, there I waited, half naked in a tiny dressing room, arms in the air, weeping. I was ten minutes away from being late for work because I was tied up in a top meant for women with skinny arms. That was just too stupid. Even my childhood self would not have forecast this scenario.
Suddenly, there was a knocking against the outside wall. Oh god.
"How are you doing in there?" a salesperson said.
"Oh, fine. And you?"
"Um, I'm good," she singsonged with an edge of concern. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Yeah. No. I'm fine!"
"Let me know if I can get you another size."
"Will do," I said.
I wondered if she could see my arms extended over the top of the dressing room wall and realized that, if she could, they had been suspended there for more than a few minutes. I was a freak. I crouched down so that my great, white arms would stop broadcasting my freakness.
After about five minutes or so, my plan showed signs of success, and I managed to pull the shirt from my offending limbs without having to cut it off. I examined the deep grooves the sleeves had left in my flesh.
"You, my friends, are getting lipo," I said to my arms.
I swear that my arms sulked in response.
I put my shirt for the giant-armed back on and managed to make it to work with four minutes to spare, thwarting my limbs' dastardly plot to destroy my shoe-selling career.
Schmutzie - 1, Schmutzie'sham hocks biceps - 0.
Will Schmutzie's upper arms succeed in their plot to destroy her success? Will they be able foil her plans to find summer clothing? Stay tuned for the next episode of The Bold and the Hulk-Armed.
my bicep, shot with the CameraBag iPhone app using the Helga setting and then run through the Lo-Mob app using the News Emulsion filter
I never went through that stretched out, skinny, string bean phase that a lot of girls go through before they fill out at puberty. I remained disappointingly proportional in every way, except for, I was certain, the gargantuan state of my upper arms.
You know how a lot of eleven-year-old girl arms look. They are thin and long and look like they can barely support their own weight. They're ridiculous. And I wanted arms like that in the worst way. I fervently wished that the sleeves on my t-shirts would hang away from my arms like theirs did instead of pulling snug against my skin. I was sure that my arms looked like encased sausages.
It only got worse, of course, because when everyone else matured and fleshed out, so did I, and so did my arms. Certain that my meaty appendages probably made up at least half my body weight, I tried weighing them on the bathroom scale at home. I stretched out on the bathroom floor with my arm laid across the scale and held up a pocket mirror with my other arm so that I could look at the numbers without applying extra pressure. It was important that the measurement be as accurate as possible.
Whatever the number was that popped up on the dial, it must have confirmed my worst fears, because, from that day forward, I tried faking having skinnier arms. I pulled at my shirt sleeves after they were washed so that they gripped my upper arms less forcefully. I adopted the habit of standing with my arms slightly akimbo in an effort to keep them from mashing out even wider against my sides. I did push-ups every day to keep my burgeoning flesh under some kind of control.
Nothing worked, of course. My arms remained what my arms were genetically programmed to be, and I cursed my strong, Mennonite ancestors for their legacy. I was sure that my arms would be the things that kept me from being beautiful when I grew up. Dark shirts with long sleeves became my camouflage.
Since the early days of my pathology, my arms have caused a handful embarrassing moments, like that time when I was on a date and I reached across the table only to have my bicep tear the seam on my sleeve or that time I tried on one of those tissue-weight summer tops and my arms broke through the fabric like I was a paler, pinker version of The Hulk. HULK NO LIKE SHIRT! HULK SMASH!
Despite my childhood fear that my specific form of gigantism would keep me from beauty and love and success of any kind, I have managed just fine. I make it through the day-to-day bravely flaunting my ginormous upper limbs in short sleeves. (I've found that it relieves some of the excess weight to keep them free of extra material.) I let them out in the sun without worrying about blinding an unsuspecting bystander with their acres of whiteness. I have even taken to moisturizing them in order to maintain what aesthetic qualities they do possess.
Yesterday, though, my upper arms made me want to cry. Not since elementary school have they so tried to undermine my self-esteem.
I was in a dressing room trying on a top. It is not uncommon for the sleeves of a fitted top to be snug on my upper arms, but I thought I'd give it a try anyway. Hope springs eternal. I put my arms through the sleeves and was just pulling it over my head when I started to panic. I had not even pulled the shirt on all the way and I was already stuck. I looked in the mirror and stopped breathing as I took in the horror displayed before me.
MY ARMS WERE BEING PINCHED INTO LINKS NOT UNLIKE SAUSAGES HANGING IN BUTCHER SHOP'S WINDOW.
I stood there with my arms bound over my head, suddenly fully aware that the only thing standing between me and absolute public embarrassment was a thin curtain. I took a few deep breaths and scanned my brain for a plan.
I remembered how hand models hold their hands over their heads before a shoot to minimize the appearance of veins. I suspected that the same principle might help to drain extra blood from my arms and, therefore, decrease their size.
"You can do this," I said to myself.
And, there I waited, half naked in a tiny dressing room, arms in the air, weeping. I was ten minutes away from being late for work because I was tied up in a top meant for women with skinny arms. That was just too stupid. Even my childhood self would not have forecast this scenario.
Suddenly, there was a knocking against the outside wall. Oh god.
"How are you doing in there?" a salesperson said.
"Oh, fine. And you?"
"Um, I'm good," she singsonged with an edge of concern. "Can I help you with anything?"
"Yeah. No. I'm fine!"
"Let me know if I can get you another size."
"Will do," I said.
I wondered if she could see my arms extended over the top of the dressing room wall and realized that, if she could, they had been suspended there for more than a few minutes. I was a freak. I crouched down so that my great, white arms would stop broadcasting my freakness.
After about five minutes or so, my plan showed signs of success, and I managed to pull the shirt from my offending limbs without having to cut it off. I examined the deep grooves the sleeves had left in my flesh.
"You, my friends, are getting lipo," I said to my arms.
I swear that my arms sulked in response.
I put my shirt for the giant-armed back on and managed to make it to work with four minutes to spare, thwarting my limbs' dastardly plot to destroy my shoe-selling career.
Schmutzie - 1, Schmutzie's
Will Schmutzie's upper arms succeed in their plot to destroy her success? Will they be able foil her plans to find summer clothing? Stay tuned for the next episode of The Bold and the Hulk-Armed.
Reader Comments (15)
Back in the days of clothes that were shiny and pants legs that were pegged I found the greatest (for the era) pair of green and black lame (picture an accent over that e, please) pants that I simply had to have. I was skinny but my hips are big. I fretted and got 2 sizes just in case. I never found out if the smaller size fit my hips because I couldn't get MY FEET through the pegged legs. I had to buy a larger size pair of pants because my FEET were too big.
Here's to a perfect arm-fit on your entire summer wardrobe!
I have been know to suffer from size disillusion when shopping and have found myself in similar predicaments more times than I care to remember. The problem is not your arms, it's those twiggy designers who don't understand how a woman's body truly is shaped.
It's like we're twins.
When I was 11, my mother said, "You have fat arms. Just like your grandmother." My grandmother, who my mother hated, had arms bigger than my thighs. I thought my mother was exaggerating.
I have fat arms. I have always hated my arms. Since having babies, my excess ...insulation... ends up in my arms and my inner thighs. Yay me. I have had difficulty finding shirts that fit. When I make clothes, I have to add several inches on to the arm bits so that I don't rip the seams right open. I hate my upper arms.
While dancing a few months ago, I noticed how the flab flaps of my arms descended nearly to nipple-height when my arms were raised to shoulder level, and I was horrified. I decided to get liposuction. Just on my upper arms.
And then I thought that when I get my breast reduction, I could ask them to do it at the same time. And then I thought that since I'm getting the fat sucked out of my arms *anyway*, why not just ask them to do *something* with my stomach. And then I thought my thighs would be jealous, so I'd have to get some sculpting done there, too.
Four months ago, I started going to the gym, and my arms have shrunk a little. I can get them in my coat without my coat pinching. They still dangle and flap and I refuse to look at them in the mirror. But it's getting better.
I'm still not ruling out liposuction. But I really, *really* feel your pain, Schmutzie.
When I worked in retail I had to help a woman get unstuck from a shirt that was too tight. She had been able to get it on, but had not been able to get it off. The deed was accomplished by her putting her arms straight in the air, and me tugging the shirt off of her in a couple solid jerks.
Next time you get stuck in your clothes and someone asks if they can help, it's probably quicker to admit your stuck and get the assistance. Besides it will give that employee great stories to tell to her co-workers! :)
I have fat arms. They're even bigger around than my boyfriend's muscley man arms. Plus now that I'm losing weight they're getting a deflated wrinkly look. I'll have to work up huge biceps to fill the skin back up. Oops was that too gross?
I'd rather have arms with a little something on them than what I got goin on. Yeah thats right. I have toothpick 11-yr old girl arms and a 50 inch waist. Blech.
Your arms, my legs. Specifically my knees.
I was always envious of those girls with perfectly tanned, slim legs. Not the pasty, overstuffed rag doll legs I have. When I ran, they were toned, but still too thick for the rest of my body, and I accepted my pallor long ago (I can't stand the smell of self-tanner), but I've always wished for stick pin legs.
Hilarious entry, Schmutzie; and sounds a lot like any one of those parts of our bodies that women seem to dwell on negatively. I have gone from one to another over the years and it's funny how only when in that particular phase do I actually notice them at all.
OMG could you be just a bit harder on yourself? I have swimmer's shoulders so most shirts, I have this expanding chest, where the shoulders pop above mine like weird shoulder pads. That is the crap of the shirt, not my arms. Sigh. If we could only be happy with all of us. ;)
it never ceases to amaze me how hard us women are on ourselves. Do you think for second a man wiould ever feel that way? Nope.
you, dear Schmutzie, are delicious.
adorable.
intrepid.
and hilarious.
I my tush and I loved this post.
Have you read Annie Lamott's Traveling Mercies? In which she makes peace with The Aunties (her thighs)? If not, you must.
In the meantime, I will stay tuned for The Further Adventures
I have really big boobs, in target last week, I got stuck in a dress because I couldn't get it back over my boobs. I understand your panic. On a plus side, at least you can till the land in comfort should the acopolypse happen.
As I read about your getting stuck in the shirt, my heart began to pound. I hate the feeling of being stuck and become unreasonably upset if a piece of clothing is tight and doesn't stretch so I can get out easily. I got rid of a lovely tank dress that had no zipper (what was I thinking when I bought it?) because I had near panic attacks every time I had to take it off.
a friend of mine has awesome arms and she credits horseback riding for their nearly perfect state. i have an upper arm thing too, and now i feel better about it b/c you have it too. and, of course you're kicking it's ASS!
I feel your pain, I really do. I'm fat, so my arms are also fat... but even if I weren't carrying any extra weight, my limbs would remain short, round and stocky. They've been this way for as long as I can remember. I am solid.
And getting stuck in clothing while trying it on is one of my worst nightmares. I have, on occasion, heard a small seam rip as I was frantically struggling to get out of a too-tight shirt. Oopsie! I need clothing that's willing to compromise with my body, you know? Is it too much to ask for a little stretch? I'm not talking Spandex... just... wiggle room.