I walked by the mirror in my closet-room today and saw something no person should have to see. The skin on my legs wiggled a little bit. I even walked backwards and tried it again in slow motion. My thigh skin used to be tightly connected to my muscles; it wasn’t a separate entity? So, I did what any reasonable middle-aged woman would do. I grabbed my car keys, hauled ass, and joined a gym. I approached the counter, like a person buying drugs in a hushed voice and their darkest sunglasses. It went something like this, whispering, “Excuse me, I think I would like to join the gym.” I even did the finger-pointing thing that looks like you are pushing buttons in the direction of girls on a treadmills. Just incase she didn’t know what I was talking about. As the girl started to fill in my information, I glanced around and pushed my ray bans further up my nose like I was doing surveillance. Did I mention, I was already sweating from the walk in and I had yet to take the complimentary tour? I thought I was being really clever during that by holding my bag in a way that masked my exposed thighs. Actually, I clung to it like a security blanket. I’m planning on letting the jumbo bag go tomorrow and moving up to an adult sippy cup that fits in that hole built right into the elliptical.