Body Scan, by Barbara Cartwright

I used to have nice feet. Beautiful feet. Especially if my toes were painted with nail polish. Red. Or some other striking color. But as you age, feet are the first to go. They insist on sensible shoes. Flat or flattish with a rounded toe box. They tire easily. And they can't be coerced into going on. Now, nail polish is what I use so people look at my feet but not too closely. They think: "She paints her toes. She must be taking care of herself."

I'm fond of my ankles. They're not thick. They could be narrower, but as far as I know there's no plastic surgery that makes people's ankles more definitively thin. And even if there were, I wouldn't go for it.

I have good calves. Not great but good enough.

I'm a little knock-kneed. I remember the pediatrician telling my mother it was the only part of me that wasn't perfect. Liar! I'd like to give him a piece of my mind today but what good would it do? What good would it have done back then? Still, who the hell was he looking at?

My thighs have seen better days. Those number in the single digits, if you must know. If I lose enough weight they begin to approximate what I expect from a pair of thighs. That's a big if. Also they used to be stronger. They're still strong enough for hiking and stairs. Or an evening of dancing.  But if I bend my knees and sit on my haunches, I have a terrible time getting back up. I want to cry for help but I'm too embarrassed. Sometimes I sit like that for hours. Perhaps it's a lack of elasticity that's to blame, which I'm sure I could improve upon if only I did regular yoga or stretches. But I never remember to do anything I feel guilty about for not doing. And these are the last activities that come to mind if I'm already sitting down.

My abs are in a witness protection program. Even I don't know where they are. We don't communicate. It's not allowed.

My waist comes and goes, depending on what it has to compare itself to. On bad days, it looks like a Calvin Klein model but wider, like someone on a steady diet of cake and ice cream sodas. On good days, I can consider wearing a belt. Note the word consider.

I used to think I wanted perkier breasts. I read somewhere they should fit perfectly into a champagne glass. The wide kind from the '40s and '50s; not the tall flutes we're accustomed to today. These days, if I want to pour my breasts into a glass, it has to be a sturdy tumbler, the kind you get at IKEA or Crate and Barrel. Wide mouth, straight sides. I prefer not to dwell on that right now.

Once I joined a gym and went regularly for a few months. I liked the way my shoulder and neck muscles took on their own identity. How I could flex them at will if I rotated my outstretched arms palms front, then back. My biceps refused to play along. I don't know why. You'll have to ask them.

I am more than okay with my neck. But I prefer my face when it's less puffy. Still, I prefer a nightly glass of wine even more. My hair has good days and bad, usually nothing to do with any input I might have.

I am very fond of my ears. Wouldn't change a thing. Though it would be nice to stop the ringing. Likewise my nose and mouth. Fond, that is. My teeth could be whiter and shinier. I think it's that age thing again. Cf. earlier reference to feet and toes.

My hands don't seem to be changing much at all. Except one knuckle is arthritic and bent, just like my mother's got to be. And I have one finger that pops in the morning. I forget what you call it. Trigger finger? Something like that. It eventually stops popping if I clench and unclench my fist a few times. It's really just when I wake up that I notice it. The doctor says she can give me a shot of cortisone but I'm afraid I'll pass out from the novocaine they shoot you up with first. I'll just go on saying "good morning pop-up finger" until it hurts or won't pop back up at all.

And maybe, just maybe, by that time I won't be able to see it crook or hear it crunch. I'll be so far gone, it'll just be cake and ice cream sodas all day long.

Finally an upside to getting on and getting old.