What the hell happened to my arms when I turned 50? As few as five years ago, I was flaunting a set of tanned biceps that I was fairly proud of. I could still perform the Rose Bowl queen wave without hitting myself in the eye with flappy under arms.
My grandma had bat wing arms. Her arm jiggle fascinated us kids. My cousin Rachel would reach across Granny's corset-clad girth, tap the wrinkled drape of skin and shriek with half-delight, half-horror as the bat wing came to life.