All This Extraness

Whose body is this, anyway?  I glance (glancingly) in Mirror Mirror at these fleshly fleshy parts tout-a-coup-morphosed into those of my aunts and forefathers, god me me with these jiggly arms, the bulbous belly that was gone but is back, thighs like juicy strawberry logs, my butt full-throttle zaftig.  What has happened here?  I understand: metabolism slows by some inhuman fraction every year, the testosterone is riding into the sunset and being replaced by extra chins, fondue cheeks, and dreams about ice cream buffets.  When I’m happy I eat, and when I’m sad I don’t exercise, and I’m usually one or the other.  Good heavens, why can’t I just grow extra hands or something?

All this extraness seems like a meaningless punishment, a silly gesture of a result.