She’s teaching her daughter valuable lesson: There’s no age limit to sleeveless tops

I was choosing my outfit for an outdoor event. Although the heat was oppressive with heavy humidity hanging in the still air, I advised myself, “It might be chilly when the sun goes down, so I’d better wear sleeves.”

I returned a breezy, sleeveless linen blouse with a beautifully embroidered yoke to its hanger, and pulled out a shapeless, elbow-length tunic.

It was not going to get cool, or even comfortably warm. I was simply telling myself a big fat lie, a contrived excuse to hide my floppy arms. I wanted to hide the soft, saggy skin that slumps with gravity’s pull.

But why? Do I fear my friends’ and family’s affection for me is dependent on how defined my biceps are? Am I sparing others the horror of having to lay eyes on age-appropriate skin that’s not perfectly taut and smooth?

Is there someone among my family I wish to impress? Or do I imagine that long sleeves would somehow obscure the fact that I’m no spring chicken? After all, the gray in my hair, crepey skin on my neck and exaggerated pear shape should give a heads up that under a shapeless blouse, my arms probably aren’t “all that.”

It dawned on me that much uglier than my droopy arms is the idea that someone would think less of me because of the natural aging process, or worse, the notion that someone would wish me a heat stroke in order to spare themselves a glimpse of my flaws.

I scolded myself for falling prey to vanity.

I’m raising a daughter, a young woman whose attitudes toward body image are forming, and how she watches me age, and respond to others’ appearances, and how she feels me respond to her own, will seep into her own attitudes. She may one day repeat or reject them, but they will stay with her.

I put the dumpy tunic in the give-away pile, and put on the embroidered sleeveless blouse, and headed to the party. I received compliments, and feeling as cool as possible despite the heat, I thanked myself for choosing practicality.

Toward the end of the night my daughter and I stood, my arm resting on a fence, talking to a family member. He’s an ornery uncle whose love language is harassment. As we chatted, he nonchalantly reached over and twiddled the floppy skin hanging below my arm. He smiled expectantly, waiting for my response.

I narrowed my eyes briefly, I suppose to convey my mild annoyance, and continued our conversation, leaving my arm propped up on the fence. My daughter rolled her eyes, most likely glad he’d chosen to harass me over her. And that was that.

Ironic and annoying as it was to have the very flaw I’d struggled with pointed out, I’m glad it happened. My daughter might not have thought about what I chose to reveal, or she might have thought me to be oblivious to the subtle effects of aging on my body. But when my imperfections were indelicately highlighted, I was given the opportunity to model self-acceptance and unwillingness to flinch.

I know someday my daughter will hesitate before she reaches for something, finding herself awash with self-doubt, shyness, or even shame.

Perhaps she’ll struggle to choose a weather-appropriate blouse, or maybe it will be something with higher stakes: a job, a relationship or some other aspiration. I hope when that happens, she will remember that she is worthy and deserving, flaws and all. Because we all have flaws, but they do not define us.

Emily Parnell lives in Overland Park and can be reached at emily@emilyjparnell.com