The G Word

Gravity is a wonderful thing, it holds us to the ground, keeps cars on the road, puts poop in the commode, all the right things, but recently I have found that it is affecting me in ways I had never thought about. When I sit, I plop, and when I eat, I dribble, all due to gravity. Not good.

I am 5’5”, always have been 5’5” and planned to be 5’5” until my kids roll me into the ground. But two years ago, the doctor’s mismarked measuring stick said I was 5’4” and this year, guess what, it reads 5’2”. That’s three full inches shorter than I actually am. Three inches. I told her that her measuring stick was wrong, but she just smiled and said, “Gravity, my dear.” I’m going to buy her a new tape measure when I go for my annual check-up next year.

And my used-to-be-firm biceps have fallen from the top of my arm to the bottom of my arm. Kerplop. Some will say, more gym time, Gail, but I’m not sure that any amount of gym time will correct that particular gravitational flaw.

My average-width feet are now wider, my fingers point in odd directions, and even my eyelids seem to be responding to gravity. It won’t be long until my eyebrows blossom into caterpillars, crawling down my forehead. I can hardly wait until it’s mammo time.

I really don’t understand why gravity began to affect my body adversely on the very same month that I started getting Social Security. Everything was fine until then. I guess it’s another thing we can blame on the government.