IT’S THE ELBOW, THE HAND
MacDowell Colony, a spring
with the lilacs, divorce in the
just blooming rose air. “It’s
the elbow” a composer said,
that’s how you tell age. And
the hands.” Others supposed
I was in my twenties. A dating
service low on young women
asked if I’d let them say I was
22 they would pay me. But
this man said “Lyn, your
hands, I can tell you’re not
19.” Horrified, I spit out,
“scars, poison ivy, I covered
them with lotion, I burned
them.” He just shook his head.
Now I wear long sleeves,
fish net to show a little skin
but not enough so you’d
notice my elbows, my arms. I
buy shrug after shrug, sheer
dance jerseys, am glad I am
usually cold, that the ballroom
studio is freezing. Tonight in
a sweltering ballet class, all the
young girls in skimpy camisoles,
their arms taut and lovely 19,
20, maybe 22, I check their
elbows, how the skin near the
armpits on some already show
where they will sag. The lucky
ones have Michelle Obama’s
but even some of the babies are
feeling earth’s mouths on them.
You have to look carefully
to notice. Their elbows still pretty
smooth, unwrinkled, mine
camouflaged in torn leotards
with the crotch cut out for a
top I hope looks a little like
skin. I checkout what positions
flatter, which disclose what
isn’t so nice, try on my 16th
birthday party sleeveless
rose dress. It’s held up
well, considering but I don’t
think of, can’t imagine
what’s ahead