The Law of Gravity ought to be repealed. Yeah, I know it keeps things attached to solid ground so we’re not all flailing fruitlessly in space, but other than that, gravity serves no useful purpose at all.

Other than a bag of Oreos, gravity is a woman’s worst enemy. Around middle age, everything starts sagging like a slow-moving mudslide. We know that eventually our breasts are going to blend into our stomachs and no one will know whether we are coming or going unless we are wearing a belt buckle. It’s like the grill on the front of a Mack truck.

Let’s face it, in middle age, the hair on our heads starts to evacuate like there’s been a fire drill and relocates itself onto our faces. Never before has an item been so constantly our companion as our tweezers.

Sagging hairy jowls, grandma’s mustache, and a jutting unibrow; we have all the markings of a Neanderthal. It’s no wonder that the beauty industry is thriving. We are desperate to reclaim the face and body we know we already had somewhere. It’s there, we just have to find it.

Where is it? Gravity claimed it. Oh gravity, thou art a heartless witch!

I was shopping for a suit for a special occasion recently. Everything I tried on looked as though it belonged on someone much taller and 60 pounds lighter. I looked like a Weeble.

I thought, “Where is that fabulous rack I used to have twenty years ago? On me, the suit looked like I had swallowed a throw pillow and it got stuck halfway down.

As I wandered around the store bemoaning my dumpy state and wishing gravity would go find another planet to live on, I came across the lingerie department. The undergarments I was forced to consider bore no resemblance whatsoever to what I had always thought was lingerie.

These were what my mother calls “foundation.” Well, I thought, I suppose if you want to build a brick house, you have to start with a good foundation. They were made of whalebone, titanium and, I suspected, a material that might be used in the after-burners of the space shuttle. These hearty undergarments could squeeze and tuck twenty years off my frame if I could just get into one. Ladders should be installed in the changing rooms so that you can simply leap into them.

The first one I tried on winded me with the effort and then I couldn’t suck in enough air to keep me from falling into a dead faint. Perhaps I was a little too optimistic on the size.

The second one I tried on made me sigh in relief. There’s that rack! I knew it was there somewhere! Welcome home old friend! The only problem was that now my breasts looked like they were equipped with nuclear warheads: Like Madonna in her cone costume. Hmm. Nope. I don’t think so.

The third one was little more subtle in the warhead area but was completely see-through. It was like it was saying: “I may be something your grandmother would wear, but I’ve got sex-appeal!” That’s what I like: Undergarments with attitude. As if I would ever let anyone see me in that.

Liposuction, Botox, collegen injections, anti-wrinkle lotions, cellulite zappers, and underwear that finds your twenty-year old body. I may not be able to fight gravity alone, but at least the “The Resistance” is on my side.