The fluctuating weight of my late teens and 20s meant I was at war with various parts of my body at any one time
The fluctuating weight of my late teens and 20s meant I was at war with various parts of my body at any one timeEmer McLysaght: 'One of my greatest regrets is being so cruel to my body when it was young and perfect.
' Photograph: iStock Exactly 25 years ago I was in the middle of my J1-visa summer in New York, waitressing in a country club on Long Island and taking semi-regular jaunts into Manhattan to gorge at the buffet of clothes shops that were unavailable to us at home: Abercrombie and Fitch, American Eagle Outfitters and my personal favourite, Gap. Finally, I could supplement a wardrobe that consisted of three pairs of trousers from Hobo or Nope and a smattering of band T-shirts and boat-necked going out tops from A|Wear.
I splashed out on a denim jacket in Gap that summer, oblivious to how integral it would become to my wardrobe. I was 20 years old. I was already aware that my extremely average-sized upper arms were a problem. The term “bingo wings” was starting to take hold – a horrible, gendered term referring to the less defined and toned anatomy of some women.
Older women, specifically, waving their flabby, loose-skinned arms in the air to shout “line” or “house”, flapping their bingo wings. God forbid they might just be allowed to exist. I was at least 40 years too young to fit the core bingo-wing demographic, but already the magazines I was reading were whipping up a panic about upper-arm appearance and what could be done to stave off ham-hock hell.
The fluctuating weight of my late teens and 20s meant I was at war with various parts of my body at any one time. My upper arms were my greatest enemy, and I devoted an inordinate amount of time in the noughties making sure that as few people as possible were forced to witness them. The Gap denim jacket came with me everywhere, like a safety blanket.
My cat needs an MRI and it’s going to cost me €2,000I try to mitigate my guilt for no longer saying thanks to bus drivers I remember being bashed around at a gig in a small Dublin city centre venue, a place hotter than the surface of the sun. My dress was sleeveless, so obviously I had to keep my jacket on lest anyone lay eyes on my illegal arms and have to be taken to a lab to have their corneas rinsed.
I remember my friend roaring at me over the music, “Are you not roasting? ”.
“No,” I lied, puce in the face and hair slathered to the nape of my neck. No level of comfort was worth exposing my – again, perfectly fine – upper arms to the world. Regret is such a useless emotion, but it’s one I coddle and dote on. One of my greatest regrets is being so cruel to my body when it was young and perfect and capable.
I endured so much self-inflicted misery in cardigans and hoodies and jackets, covering up my perceived premature bingo wings. And it wasn’t just the arms. I had to wear a T-shirt over my swimsuit. I couldn’t let my legs be unsheathed when their hideousness could easily be camouflaged by 60-denier tights.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve loosened some of the rules. The tights are now a winter-only garment, and the swimming T-shirt has been discarded. The arms, however, have proven to be the most difficult hang up to overcome .
‘The most useful advice is to engage in exposure therapy. Begin with having the upper arms out around the house and in the garden’ This most recent spell of warm weather forced my hand. Wearing sleeveless garments around the house and then swapping them for prisons of fabric when venturing out in public was torturous. An invite to a friend’s house last weekend including a 20-minute swim/walk through the soupy air pushed me over into f***-it territory.
I forced myself to go sleeveless. And guess what? No cars screeched to a horrified halt. No children screamed for their mothers.
Did I imagine that everyone in the shop was considering calling the police? Yes. Did the old Irish mammy proverb “sure who’d be looking at you? ” ring in my ears?
Also yes. Did the cool air-conditioned breeze on the oxters make it all worthwhile? Oh God yes. If you ask the internet what you can do if you “hate your arms”, the guidance ranges from “wear a scarf or bolero” to a dizzying array of exercises promising to give you the toned biceps and triceps of 2008-era Michelle Obama. The most useful advice though is to engage in exposure therapy. Begin with having the upper arms out around the house and in the garden. Take them out for a short jaunt.
Desensitise the part of your brain that longs to cover them up. Go sleeveless to a small and safe gathering; a friend’s house a 20-minute walk away was ideal for this experiment. Hell, go to bingo. Irishman in Sydney: This place has the weather, beaches and beauty, but it comes at a cost‘Friends who visit me in Ireland ask why are you complaining?
The weather here is amazing’Irish workers will need €41,000 a year from their pension for a comfortable retirementAughinish Alumina report will not rule out that material is used in Russian weaponsThe hosepipe snitches of suburban Ireland: It’s just not very ‘love thy neighbour’
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