The one change that worked: I learned to love my arms – after decades of hating and hiding them
It took a heatwave to get me to shed my shame and my sleeves, but now there’s no stopping me. Life is cooler in every way
‘Aren’t you hot in that?” was the question that plagued my summers as a teenager. I would never bare my arms; instead, I would cover up with a trusty black cardigan. Even T-shirts felt too revealing, too tight on the arm, too clinging to the body. I needed layers to feel comfortable. Well, comfortable isn’t the right word. I was never comfortable, despite telling everyone: “No, I’m not hot. I don’t really feel the heat.”
In my 20s and 30s, I collected a hot-weather capsule wardrobe of T-shirt dresses in various sizes, all baggy and sleeved. But why? I’m someone who should know better. I’ve read the books, I’ve shared the memes. I know, from body-positivity activists, that you don’t have to deny yourself the joy of being at the beach or pool just because a magazine tells you you have to get yourself “beach-body ready”: slimmer, hairless, perfect.
I’m also someone who understands logically that a cardigan may cover you, but it doesn’t hide your body shape. When I hide my skin, I don’t make myself magically disappear, but I do make myself smaller. I’m showing the world that I respect beauty norms and that I know I don’t meet them.
I learned to hate my arms by listening to other women talk about theirs. Arm hatred feels like a homegrown industry – by women for women. Arms don’t have the mainstream attention of beauty standards. Perhaps it’s because they aren’t sexualised. I don’t remember seeing a lads’ mag spread on “Barbara from Bradford’s biceps” when I was growing up.
But last month it was my friend’s birthday. That day, the temperature was more than 30C in London. The idea of putting any real clothing on and leaving the house seemed impossible, but I had to be there. I looked at my small selection of heatwave-appropriate clothes. None of them were very celebratory. I looked through the hangers for something else.
My eye was drawn to a white sleeveless shirt, bought in Austin, Texas, where they dress for the constant heat – I’d bought it thinking I’d wear it one day, probably with a jacket. At that moment, something shifted and, despite years of conditioning to hate my arms, my hatred for the heat won. I put the sleeveless shirt on. (I added a pair of navy culottes with a white band at the bottom that made me feel like a fancy little Victorian boy, if he had access to Asos.) At 37, outside a swimming pool, I was bare-armed in public for the first time.
And, of course, it was fine. No one cared. If they did, they didn’t tell me. I haven’t been properly catcalled in years (I look too old not to yell back) and the revealing of my BCG vaccination scar didn’t change that. I can’t believe it took me this long.
The next day, I posted about it on Instagram. I have a video series called Diary of a Sweaty Girl, where I chronicle my life as, you guessed it, a sweaty girl. I shared that the climate crisis had overtaken sexist body standards and had somehow freed me from my besleeved burden. Others shared that they too were experiencing their “first year arms out no shame” because they “couldn’t be bothered any more”. That’s how I felt. Yes, it was lovely to have my arms out, but it wasn’t a celebratory feeling. It was more like waking up: a softer, quiet change.
And did it make things cooler? Yes, it turns out you do keep a lot of heat in if you cover the upper arms and shoulders.
The week after my heatwave brainwave, I went on holiday with a group of friends. The change stuck. Instead of always having some sort of cover-up to hand, I was happy to be in my swimsuit. During hot French evenings, I didn’t find a way to fashion a shirt over my outfit; I wore a sleeveless dress and danced the night away, getting more mosquito bites on my shoulders than ever before.
Now, I’m reconsidering my wardrobe. I’m no longer letting my friends talk about their arms negatively in front of me. I’m trying to quell that inner voice that whispers: “But is it flattering?” I’m still figuring out this new changed version of myself. And if it gets any hotter, I’m wondering what other internalised standards I can sweat out.
Amy Annette’s show Say What You Like About Me is at the Edinburgh fringe from 5-30 August at the Pleasance theatre
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