The Right to Bare Arms

© by 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(inspired by a recent chat with a friend and a NYT reader musing "Where Are All the Sleeves?")

It's that magical time of year again. Summertime. People in our community are out and about. Actual, recognizable, distinct. Not bundled-up shapeless blobs rushing from their heated cars to get to the heated indoors. Men in tank-tops, many bare-chested, sweating profusely that make me wonder what they were running after or what they were running from. Hot and panting. Young ladies of all ages, many in hot pants, miraculously looking cool. With skin-tones in various shades from alabaster to bronze, some with genetic blessings and sunshine, others with cosmetic help. Bare midriffs, bare arms, bare legs. Cool. Always looking impossibly cool.

Mrs. Yours Truly (YT) has renewed her yearly commitment to the outdoors in myriad ways. New flowerpots of all shapes and sizes, large bags of gardening soil, and peat moss have appeared. Many packets of seeds with colorful and healthy pictures of fruits & vegetables have been delivered. Live and not-so-live sprouting seedlings, budding shrubs promising vibrant flowers are accumulating in shaded areas. A couple of hundred-foot flexible hoses that coil and uncoil instantly in video reels but not in real life, some gleaming garden tools to replace the barely muddy ones that disappeared in the black hole last year (I swear I had nothing to do with it!), "no-leak" watering faucets with settings from "gentle massage" to "torrential downpour," etc. are mysteriously filling up scant leftover space in the garage. The middle-size storage container in the backyard is an affirmation of the Conservation of Mass principle, bulging at seams with items that are dumped in regularly, never to be thrown out since we may need them some day. Sweet nothings are being whispered regularly as I fall asleep these days... which is our pillow-talk as to how "we" should beautify our yard this year, make it look nicer, etc. Many sighs with enchanting words like pergola, trellis, all-season room, etc... and musings that what she really needs is a mali like we had back in the day in our childhood. That, however, is a story for a different post.

Mrs. YT's never-ending quest for my mental and physical wellness also goes into overdrive. I have written before about her Yo-Yo-Ga trickery. I have lately and willingly added to my daily routine a three-mile stroll around our neighborhood, a mostly shaded walking-path around a system of three lakes joined by man-made canals. The bare attractions encountered during the walk is definitely a bonus.

I grew up in a place and at a time when all moms, aunties, neighbors, uncles, etc. were constantly vigilant about the "decency" of the entire neighborhood. Short sleeves were barely acceptable and could trigger a family crisis. Sleeveless? OMG! That was strictly an indulgence of the decadent elite, unbothered by the opinions of the common man with common sense. Bare arms were considered dangerously provocative.

Upon my arrival as a graduate student, I discovered (among other cultural nuances) that the "sports bra" had been introduced in the US in the late 1970s, just a a few short years ago. Having been thoroughly brainwashed on "apparel modesty as the cornerstone of civilization," I walked across the American campus during warm and gorgeous fall weather fascinated by the tableau in front of me. The young ladies had embraced these sports bras en masse. The civilization was unraveling before my eyes. Rigid clothing categories seemed mere suggestions. That blue jeans went well with a formal blazer and tennis shoes. Sleeves were considered an outdated feature. Sports bra counted as business casual if you threw on a backpack, good enough for cafeteria, the classroom or the library.  Underwear could become outerwear through sufficient confidence.

The younger young ladies had embraced the sports bra with evangelical enthusiasm. Some senior young ladies clutched their pearls, rolled their eyes and muttered, "These kids..." But, with no moms, aunts or other neighbor busybodies around to police hemlines, the early adopters of sports bra negotiated directly with genetics about the laws of physics. The campus dress code seemed to be: "If you could theoretically jog in it, you can attend lectures in it." I walked around the campus, soaking it all in, marveling at the collective attitude of barely anyone giving a second glance towards bare arms, bare shoulders, bare midriffs, bare legs, etc. Except us newly arrived phoren students muttering, "What a country!" Such dress code fast became the new normal. 

Fast forward to when Mrs. YT arrived on the scene. She was eager to shed the clothing shackles and adopted the new ways with gusto. She stayed with short sleeves or sleeveless, not quite comfortable with sports bra in public but otherwise quite adventurous in the matters of attire. And civilization did not collapse. 

Several years later, my mother came to visit us on an extended trip. At that time, our son was four-year-old. He came home completely baffled after watching some kids TV show at a friend's house where the vegetables like tomatoes, cucumbers, asparagus and carrots sang and danced, something that he had not been exposed to. He already wasn't a fan of any of the green stuff and every dinner was a battle at home trying to get him to eat some veggies. His little brain was working overtime trying to make sense of it all. At one point during grandma's visit, he asked us very seriously, "Is zucchini (yechh)... a vegetable but also something people wear?" "No! Who said that?" Now even more confused, he said, "Dadi! She said Aunt Susan across the street is wearing a zucchini in this hot weather." It took us a while to figure out that Dadi had actually meant to say a "bikini." Thankfully, his life-experiences at four years could not quite grasp the obliquely implied moral turpitude of Aunt Susan across the street in her choice of attire in the hot weather. He could barely sense that something wasn't right, grandma's disapproval was quite apparent.

 

These days, the walking trails around here are full of determined young ladies of all ages - the runners, power walkers, and socializing friend groups logging miles while rocking shorts, crop tops, ponytails, and messy buns like they're sponsored by sunshine itself. Me? I'm over here pretending my leisurely stroll is part of an elite wellness program instead of an elaborate excuse to avoid mowing the lawn.

Our town is small enough and not much separates the business district from the rest of the community. Before the lunch hour, downtown looks like a quarterly earnings report in motion: sensible heels, corporate badges, blazers, and enough pencil skirts to make an HR handbook smile. Then... noon happens. It's like someone hits the daily "Firmware Update." Out come the running shoes. The pencil skirts vanish into desk drawers, replaced by shorts. Blazers become crop tops. Hair that spent all morning in "boardroom mode" suddenly escapes into ponytails and messy buns. Entire sidewalks transform into a moving fitness convention fueled by hydration, endorphins, and whatever mysterious energy source exists only for people who voluntarily run during their lunch break.

An hour later, transformation back to business-casual slacks, skirts, blouses, blazers, oozing professionalism. No sign of the previous 47 minutes of sunshine, swinging arms, free legs, and four-mile cardio session never happened. Corporate armor donned again, clutching laptops as shields. Meanwhile, my lunch-hour fitness strategy consists of sitting outside on the park bench, inhaling fresh air, occasionally nodding off, collecting a respectable dose of Vitamin D. These ladies are out there crushing 10,000 steps before I've decided where to get a sandwich. Their energy levels are exhausting... and I'm not even the one doing the jogging.

I'm convinced they secretly plug themselves into USB-C chargers under their desks between meetings. It's the only explanation. Fitness influencers call it "active recovery." I call mine "extended naptime."  When I'm out there, I am on my own important mission: getting fresh air, soaking up a healthy dose of Vitamin D, and enthusiastically supporting everyone's constitutional Right to Bare Arms.

So here's to warm weather, blue skies, and everyone making the most of the season. I'll continue doing my patriotic duty by appreciating the fresh air, admiring everyone's commitment to fitness from a respectful distance, and reminding myself that if I have ventured far enough to make it to the park bench, I've technically exercised too. Fully supported their Right to Bare Arms.