I think my thighs are Communists.

It seems that as I age, my body and mind are becoming more and more polarized. In my mind, I am still a young entrepreneurial capitalist ready to conquer the world; however my body seems to be staging some form of protest.

I don't know when this political shift occurred. In college we were idealists. Both body and mind were completely on board with our pace. I was chanting, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall!" for 3 straight days fueled only by ramen noodles, a bottle of Boone's Farm, and wide-eyed naiveté. Today, the bags beneath my eyes and unbearable water retention would have forced me to go to bed by 9 p.m. and Google the pictures the next day. My mental and physical stamina are somehow worlds apart.

When exactly did my body go from Jane Fonda to Mao Tse Tung?

Was it during the peaceful and prosperous nineties? I only had one child back then, I was in my twenties and I bounced back rather quickly after childbirth. I only had to carry 1 toddler on my hip and a comparatively light diaper bag. I didn't have hip dysplasia yet nor that hump on my back, so I could bring home the turkey bacon and fire it up on the George Foreman grill pan with relative grace.

No, it was that fateful Y2K year. 2000. The Millennium.

I had just had my second child and turned 30. I moved to Florida and as the democratic process broke down in that election, so did my body. Small signs of protest at first: with another child things got busier, and I became a lot more tired. I had the attention span of a tsetse fly. I could only read government pamphlets before falling asleep. Activities I took for granted in my youth--sports, exercise, walking upright--came with a lot more effort.

My muscles--the ultimate oppressed workers--planned a revolution. They refused to continue working under such horrendous conditions. Four kids, the house, that unfortunate Pilates incident…it was all a bit much. My derriere led the uprising--that gluteus Marximus.

I conducted a McCarthy trial of all of my parts. Sure enough, like any good domino effect, my body has turned on me. My hips are definitely looking a little pink. My thighs have started to call each other, "Comrade." My mid section declared, "If you are going to eat like a bourgeois fat cat, then you'll look like one!"

And they all clearly have renounced religion, because all of my prayers to stop time and gravity go unanswered.

Even my complexion has begun to look like Siberia in January. Aging is the cruelest weapon of mass destruction. While our wisdom increases and our experience has taught us a thing or two over the years, our bodies crumble like a stack of Eastern Blocs.

It seems that the hostile takeover is now complete. I've exhausted all negotiations and I believe the only course of action now is to either declare all out war, or enter into an extended period of Détente.

Because at this rate of decline, I'll be spending the rest of my days eating borscht dressed in a babushka hiding behind an Iron Curtain.

©2008 Tracey Henry

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