How I Learnt To Adore My Flaw

Writer Rebel Wylie loathed her arms so much she even wore sleeves to the beach. We challenged her totackle her fear and find the confidence to bare arms.

- Rebel Wylie

As I walk into my children’s school, I take a deep breath. As usual, I am surrounded by beachy, breezy mums in their tank tops, activewear and spaghetti-strap dresses. And for once, I’m dressed the same – specifically in a new singlet top with a flowing skirt. Subconsciously, I hold the children’s schoolbags in front of my upper arms before realising this is: a) not exactly hiding anything and b) a surefire way to litter the car park with upended lunchboxes and pencil cases. Deep breaths. I need to walk my youngest to his preschool room, and I’m in a slight panic as I realise I can’t turn back.

One, because the kids need to get to their classrooms and two, because Marie Claire have asked me to go a week exposing my arms – my most loathed limbs – to find out whether I could bear to bare them. My first instinct was to laugh maniacally and refuse, but then I decided it might be time to get over myself. I survived the fashion of the late ’80s, I could survive this.

Some women have an issue with their thighs. Others, their boobs. For me? It’s my arms. Sure, there’s probably other parts I’d change, but my legs are OK and I’m not too worried about my thighs. Arms are my kryptonite.

My earliest memories of developing an arm neurosis were circa 1991, when Linda Hamilton as Sarah Connor in Terminator 2 made arms a “thing”. Toned, tanned, strong arms. Arms that no amount of pull-ups would change mine into. I’d stare at those arms and wonder how it was possible to have a pair that svelte and defined. Mine? Too close to my body. Round. Squishing in along the sides of my torso, flattening out and spreading their girth.