Padraig Pearse Gave Me Bingo Wings

You may say that this is a wild statement, but it’s true.  Padraig Pearse (and the six other signatories of the Proclamation) have given me bingo wings.  Sure aren't they getting blamed for the state of the nation, so why not take my baggage too? Anyway, they are dead, so it’s not like they have the opportunity to defend themselves.   And no, I'm not being disrespectful. If I was, I would have printed their heads on chocolate bars, or tea towels, or something.

In case you don’t know what that means, ‘Bingo Wings’ is the loose skin that people (but mostly associated with women) of a certain age can develop on their upper arms.  I assume the term comes from sedentary ladies playing Bingo, waving their arm in the air when they win a line.

Of course I’m in denial that I could be that certain-age-woman whose body starts to do mean things on it.  Even though the signs are all around me, for example, my little girl telling me recently that I ‘was too old for a girl band, but okay to join a choir’.  It’s much easier to blame Padraig.  The last six months at work have been extraordinarily busy for me, with the Kildare 1916 commemorations programme.  It was around the clock, nights and weekends and Bank Holidays.  I went to bed worrying about it and waking up exhausted from it, on top of an already heavy work load.  

As a result, exercise and healthy eating went out the window and the bingo wings and a paunch appeared.  I am convinced that if Padraig and the lads didn’t go ahead with the Easter Rising, that my bod would be in prime NCT condition, because this development has nothing to do with my 42 and a half years on earth.  Nothing, I tell you. 

I considered taking up swimming or joining a gym to tone up, but the logistics of all that just doesn’t suit me right now.  So, I decided that my jungle garden will be my very own gym. 

I recently did a swapsies on my always-breaking-down ride-on lawn mower and bought a push power mower.  It’s easier to maintain and better for my higgledy-piggledy garden.  And better for my bingo wings.  The power drive stopped working soon after I bought the new mower, but I have yet to return it for servicing.  I figure that this is a strategic move, as the bingo wings workout would be all the better without it.  

The weather forecast for last week’s Bank Holiday Monday predicted heavy rain and storms.  There was the only full day that I’ve been at home and able to tackle the garden.  The grass was growing out of control. Sometimes I looked at the grass and it seems to grow before my eyes as fast as one of those speeded up time lapse videos.  I was a woman on a 

mission.

My outdoor gym was so hot that it also had a sauna effect.  But this sauna didn’t protect me from UV rays.  The sunscreen literally slid off my face in the heat and burned my face.  My arms were in shreds from thorns, I was covered in bruises, but boy, did my garden look good.  Despite my battered appearance, I pat my aching back for this genius tactic.  I am saving money on gym fees and on a gardener and my bingo wings will stop flapping in the wind.  Someday.  Soon.  

I’ve just about gotten over my 1916 fatigue and even managed to hum along enthusiastically to a rendition of ‘A Nation Once Again’ at a concert last night.  I’ve almost forgiven Mr Pearse and what he has done to me.  I empathise with him, organising a rebellion, in the absence of technology.  

Imagine how differently it could have turned out if he was able to send a text message the night previous to the Rising saying, ‘Lads, it’s all been called off’.   Where would we all be then ?