Bellies and bingo wings: the body bits sent to try us

‘I have grown wings: drooping, flabby victims of age and gravity’

I can pinpoint exactly when I grew breasts. It was a rare warm July day at Banna beach. I was 11 and a quarter. I can even remember the day I knew for sure that I owned a uterus, because it bled. I was 12 and a half.

But I’m damned if I can remember the day that I developed bingo wings. It’s as if they grew unnoticed, or, rather, that they fell down silently from underneath my upper arms. One day in Debenhams, in the harsh glare of a full-length mirror, clad in an unforgiving sheath, otherwise known as a sleeveless frock, they were just bloody there. Drooping, flabby victims of age and gravity.

I do know that I was 49 and eleven-twelfths on that day in Debenham’s, as I had barely a month left to purchase an outfit for my 50th-birthday bash. I knew then that it couldn’t be sleeveless. And I also knew that my bingo wings had been there for some time.

After spending a week at Bantry Literary Festival attending Magi Gibson’s “Wild Women Writing” workshop, I decided to celebrate their 50 years a’ growing. After all, it has taken a lot of living and heavy lifting to put them there.

I played bingo with my mother in Butlin’s in 1972, and, even then, I never raised my arm in bingo victory, so what contributed to their development? Or, more aptly, from where have they descended?

I would hazard a guess that many years of lifting babies and young children may have played their part. Many decades of lifting pint glasses, half-pint glasses, wine glasses, champagne glasses and, more recently, distance glasses have possibly hastened the fall. I’d like to think that some of my attempts to help other people lift their burdens might have accelerated the sag.

As a tribute to the wonderful group of women writers that I met in Bantry, I’ve now decided to rename them as just my wings, and I am determined that I will use them to fly away, to go wherever I want to go, whenever I need to go, even if it’s just in my imagination.

Kathryn Crowley

‘When it comes to toes, my mother and I could be stunt doubles’

I have my mother’s small toes. Short and stubby.

I first noticed this during the summer, when we went shopping for sandals. We resemble each other in no other way, but when it comes to toes, we could be stunt doubles.

Every summer, I lust after strappy sandals. Trying on the brightest pair first, I pirouette with joy around the shoe shop. Of course, the thin leather straps then begin to strangle my toes viciously. Limping in a most un-ballerina-like way, I am forced to retreat to the sensible shoe section, muttering and cursing as I go.

While perfectly practical, my small toes have never been pretty. I don’t even have proper nails; just a smirk of keratin too thin to paint.

Inevitably, I end up daubing the skin around the nail, much like women who apply lipstick outside their lip-line. I have become insanely jealous of those who have French manicures on their toenails. Last year, I discovered there are even false nails for toes; that’s great for people who have semi-normal nails to glue them on to.

I was told recently that we still need our small toes for proper balance and support. I subsequently read that, unless they are a threat to our survival, we are unlikely to lose them through evolution.

Last year, I broke the small toe on my right foot. Strangely, and briefly, it straightened out. For a few moments before the pain broke through, my toe was long and elegant.

Needless to say, this didn’t last. I hobbled around for the next two weeks, couldn’t stand for any length of time, and ate entire meals of painkillers. Was it my foot’s revenge for a lifetime of disapproval? I can only guess.

And since then, I have respected my small toes.

At the very least, they are my only physical resemblance to my mother, and a reminder that being pain-free is more important than vanity.

Amanda Leahy

‘I’ll never trust anyone like I trust my gut’

The much-maligned belly. The word rolls off my tongue like marbles off a slippery surface. It bounces. Belly. And boy does it bounce. Our bellies are our centre. Life springs from there. It is the gatekeeper of the engine that keeps us trucking on. Our bellies are strong. They protect. I’ll never trust anyone like I trust my gut.

But it needs to be smaller. My own particular belly needs to shrink, retract and retreat. Round is bad, so I’m told. Flat is the way to go. What we need is a six-pack of a whole lot of nothing, rippling down our torsos. Right?

But surely the round mound is stronger? No? I personally thought my own belly was pretty all right as it was; not perfect, mind you, but it keeps me standing up, and sure isn’t that half the battle? When I sit, its creases are like a smile beaming back at me as if to say “Hello there, we’re still here and going strong. Well done.” I quite like the creases.

But sometimes I get ashamed of my belly. It's like the awkward party guest, the elephant in the room. So I hide it away, walk it away, run it away and starve it away. I really didn't think my belly was all that bad until someone pointed it out. It was tucked away minding its own business but now that it's out it has got to go. I will become the incredible shrinking woman.

But I’ll be lonely without my belly. We’ve had some great times. I really didn’t think it was all that bad but flat is where it’s at . . . although where it’s at looks lean and stark and hungry and an awful lot of effort.

I feel my resolve wavering a bit. Who wants to be invisible anyway? There wouldn’t be many belly laughs in my future without my beloved belly.

Laura Kennedy

Hands

I remember my grandmother’s hands – lightly tanned, smooth polished nails, short, neat, thin, worn gold band; soft, cool and kind to hold.

My mothers’ hands and Her mothers’ hands were both the same . . . lightly tanned, though I never saw either of them sitting outdoors in the sun; smooth nails, clear, soft skin, thin gold bands, no jewels on these working hands. Washing, cooking and best of all, petting away the hurts and woes of long ago.

I see my own hands – different – no gold band here, widowed too soon, rough and tanned from the garden, calloused from working, hands that can hammer, and drive screws, catch a hen, clean out the fire and top up the oil in the car . . . and do all those other things that don’t seem important on the day – the washing and cooking and making and mending . . . holding my children, holding my love, petting away the hurts and the woes . . . day by day . . .

Suzanne Whitty