The Right to Bare Arms

Just because my arms could fit a tattoo of one of them there naked lady outlines you see on 18 wheeler mud-flaps. Life-sized. With room to spare. Doesn't mean I should be ashamed. (Ok. Just disregard my last post and momentarily put aside all my insecurities.)



You see, I don't care that they flap in the breeze, jiggle when I brush, hang like a hammock with a sumo-wrestler napping in it.

Or that I've been likened to a flying bat.

Or that I could be a circus side show phenomenon, The Incredible Stretchy Woman! (as well as The Bearded & Mustached Lady!)

Or that I could get some serious lift (about 1 to 2 inches off the ground) if I flap hard enough.

Or that I should register them as weapons. No kidding. Honey, I can slap the silly off of a clown from two feet away with these arm flaps of mine!

Never mind any of that...I've worked so very hard. And these flappy babies are a symbol, a memorial banner (hung low) if you will, to where and who I once was. A beautiful tribute to WLS success stories and 40+ women all over the world.




And I want them removed as soon as I can get insurance approval. Or a large sum of money falls from the heavens with no strings or taxes attached...whichever comes first.

But until then, I will wear short sleeves. Go sleeveless. Wear spaghetti straps. Wave and flap as much as Grandma Moses with an American flag on 4th of July. Without shame or shawl to hide behind.




Take that you inbred, banjo playing goons!