First Lady Michelle showing those trend-setting arms & President Barack Obama

Stunningly Sleeveless

By the looks of spring’s sleeveless styles, the fashion industry is cheering on our svelte First Lady. The sight of her toned arms, however, has caused a fashion feud between the cardigan-swaddled anti-sheaths and the audacious pro-sheaths, who hug the heads of monarchies.

The fact of the matter is that not everyone has the discipline, genes, or workout schedule to obtain Michelle Obama’s thunder-and-lightning arms. There are, hence, as many euphemisms for un-toned upper arms as there are excuses for not hitting the gym—bat wings, jigglers, bingo arms. My favorite name for muscle tone deficiency is “buh-bye.” It’s an onomatopoeia: frog says ribbit; a flabby arm in a mid-air wave says buh-bye.

Your average Jane of no remarkable musculature can do one of several things in response to this barrage of exposed upper arms. The first is denying it—turn a blind eye and run back to last season’s bracelet sleeves. You might even subversively embrace halter-tops with the intention of forming a sisterhood of drooping limbs. The new millennium’s equivalent of burning your bra may be flashing arm flab in the harsh light of day. It’s brash. It’s radical. It doesn’t care if you are a certain age.

Alas, lovelies. I wish my intention were to challenge those impossibly hard-to-attain beauty standards. I’m daydreaming about a Lanvin one-shoulder dress and fretting about my less-than-defined arms.

My first stop is the green medi-spa Epicenter. Why endure the grunting and sweating if you can let it melt away surrounded by oversized pots of orchids? The spa doesn’t offer the plastic surgery that shrinks down arms, but it does offer ways to improve texture and skin tone. Most women, according to Jennifer Fick, director of clinical operations, do not protect their shoulders and arms from sun damage, which accelerates the aging process causing crepey skin and hyper-pigmented lesions, aka sunspots. The spa has laser and microdermabrasion treatments for shoulders, arms, and hands, so that your face can match the skin on your body. For the best results, according to Jennifer, you’ll want to set aside six months of regular appointments. In between, sunscreen and regular exfoliation are musts.

I heed Jennifer’s instructions right away. It’s off to the Remède Spa in the St. Regis for a customized wrap. The first step calls for an exfoliation followed by the slathering on of various potions: citrus oil for lymphatic drainage, soybean protein for stretch marks, and bran oil for firming, after which Jade, my massage therapist, wraps me up in plastic wrap. I am on a hot slab and sweating it out for half an hour, while receiving a decadent scalp massage with bitter orange oil. Jade advises that I not bathe for the next six hours to allow the product to penetrate. It’s certainly not a down and dirty workout, but the treatment gives me clarity of mind to realize that I must muster up the courage to step into the gym.

Judy Truong, a private trainer at the Sports Club/LA in the Four Seasons Hotel, goes by her mantra of “no excuses.” Her secret to getting results is consistency. She insists that there are as many chances to work out as there are hours in a day. It’s not new news, unless you have been brain dead since Jane Fonda kicked off her Buns of Steel revolution. Judy’s value is that she flashes a perky smile while dishing out that tough love.

First, she has me demonstrate triceps extensions to make sure I’m isolating the correct muscles. Squeeze and focus, she says. She also frowns at my suggestion to start with three-pound weights. One of the biggest mistakes women make, according to her, is to be afraid to lift. Women don’t bulk up like men. She recommends selecting a weight that demands eighty percent of your strength and lifting until you are fatigued, which usually happens after three sets of twelve to fifteen reps. She’s also banned yapping while on the floor. Circuit training prevents our workouts from becoming social hours. Better that I run in place or jump rope between sets for that added cardio benefit. I’m suspicious that this is Judy’s clever way of shutting me up.

Next day, I meet with Kelly Grant, a registered dietitian at the Sports Club/LA. Her formula for healthy living is one serving of carbs, protein, and healthy fat at every meal, spaced out every four hours. The diet, she promises, will give a boost in energy, improve mood, and reduce sugar cravings all in a short span of three days. By way of props, she opens a drawer and takes out a rubber piece of salmon, a side of broccoli and a handful of nuts—all in their measured portions. I give her rubber toys a hard stare, commit their portion sizes to memory, and vow to them that I will be faithful.

Next, it’s over to Union Street’s Lily Pad for their exercise of choice: Pilates. It’s a boutique gym that offers a spa experience. The space is on the ground floor of an Edwardian. Period details have been lovingly restored. Damask wallpaper and tufted velvet chaises seem to be channeling Kelly Wearstler. But, hidden from the lounge’s sightlines are the reformer machines, which are contraptions that look like they might belong at a trapeze school or an S&M dungeon. Founder Lily Horowitz has lined the reformers’ handles with fuzzy cozies, but the springs and bars are no less scary. The machines work your entire shoulder, back, and core muscles to achieve so-called shoulder girdle stability, a corseting effect that makes you stand taller and skinnier. Lily quotes the founder of Pilates, Mr. Joseph Pilates, that within ten sessions you will have a new relationship with your body and within thirty sessions, a whole new body.

I promise future visits to their gym. And, as we exchange our farewells, I catch myself almost raising my arm, but for now, I’ll wave buh-bye from my elbows.

 Cheryl Locke just ran out of excuses for not working out.