We are a family of iron bars

“Look at the skin on my arms — it’s all saggy, isn’t it?”

“Hmm… yeah, it is.”

I was expecting my husband to say it wasn’t bad, that I still looked fine. But instead, he agreed! After that, I kept raising my arms and checking myself in the mirror. I don’t even have that much flesh on my arms, so where is all this sagging coming from? Looks like my whole body is starting to droop.

Eventually, my husband installed a pull-up bar on the doorframe of our bedroom. Every time I walk in or out, he says,

“Try hanging on it! Try pulling yourself up! How many times did you hang today?”

When I hang there, he lifts me from behind and teases, 

“Didn’t you do pull-ups in high school? Get your chin over the bar!”

At first, I couldn’t even imagine doing a pull-up. I couldn’t hold on for more than five seconds because my hands hurt so much. But now, I can hang while counting to fifty.

My husband is a ballpoint pen artist, and he also has a pull-up bar in his studio. In between long hours of drawing, he grabs the bar and does pull-ups. No wonder his arm strength is impressive. Even when our kids were little, my husband would nail wooden blocks onto the door frames and install iron bars for them to hang on. Every time we moved, he would remove the bar and reattach it in the new place. Even now, he’s installed bars in the apartments where our adult children live.

When our kids come back from long trips abroad, their upper bodies look weak and soft like plants grown in the shade. But once they’re home and back on the bar, we can clearly see their muscles coming back. That’s why both our kids and my husband live with pull-up bars as part of daily life.

Maybe my husband’s getting older? He used to walk through doors first without a thought. But now, once in a while, he opens the door for me like a gentleman and gently pushes my back to go in first. Only, he’s so strong that my weak back feels sore, like I’ve pulled a muscle, and I nearly fall forward.

“Mom, why does Dad keep hitting us?”

“He’s not hitting you — he’s just being playful.”

When my husband gets excited and taps the kids, or me, we all yell, “Be gentle!” “Look at all these bruises!”

Whenever he raises his arm, the three of us flinch automatically, almost scared of what’s coming.

Now when I hang from the bar, I chant, 

“Namu Amita Bul Gwan Se Eum Bo Sal.”

It’s eleven syllables. If I repeat it five times, I’ve hung there for fifty counts. It feels better than counting “one, two, three.” And maybe, just maybe, those words will help turn this sagging flesh into muscle — that’s my little hope.

I’m not religious. As a child, I only went to the temple to follow my devout mom. While she prayed, I’d sit on the steps, guarding her white rubber shoes, eyes wandering. Still, these days, I find myself muttering, “Namu Amita Bul Gwan Se Eum Bo Sal.”