It’s T-shirt weather in Salmon, and I thought that was a good thing. But when I was driving around with our 12-year-old son, the Odd Number (this doesn’t reflect on the kid’s actual strangeness but more his fascination, some would say obsession, with odd numbers, in particular 1,3, and 7), I found out that springtime in the Rockies comes with a price. In mid-story, Odd reached across and shook the skin that used to house my tricep.
“Bat wings,” he calmly declared, and gave another thwap at my arm.
I’ve known people who blame all their adult-life problems on parents who were too cruel. What no one talks about is how twisted children become when they have no fear of getting a good hard smack across the face. My son smiled sweetly at me as I plotted his demise.
The truth is I have been pretty lackadaisical about my calisthenic routine ever since I mistook a particularly rigorous round of push-ups for breast cancer.
Fortunately, after a comfy mammogram and an ultrasound, the medical team brought back a verdict of overworked pectoralis major. Needless to say, after celebrating my restored health, I modified to girl push-ups and then mostly to no push-ups. And then, apparently, to flapping my bat wings.
But now the Odd Number has forced my hand, so I’m going to do what any post-40 female would do in my situation … I’m going to watch GI Jane…
and draw a Hitler mustache on my son while he sleeps in his snug little bed tonight.