I’ve come to terms with the extra ten pounds I carry, which allow me to indulge in delicious desserts, so the sight of the fit moms with their thigh gaps lounging by the pool doesn’t dampen my self-esteem—not even a little.
Usually, my kids and I have the pool all to ourselves, so I’m not quite sure where this gaggle of toned mothers suddenly appeared from, but honestly, it’s not bothering me at all. I’m not comparing my own flaws to their seemingly flawless physiques, nor am I even going to comment on their perfectly sculpted figures, all held up by strapless bikinis that, quite frankly, seem like they defy gravity.
I can’t help but ponder: How do their kids refrain from tugging down those tops? If I donned something like that, my children would undoubtedly yank it off at the first opportunity. But I won’t dwell on how they manage such feats of magical parenting. I’ve embraced my own body and my preference for tankinis over bikinis.
One of the fit moms squats down at the pool’s edge, applying sunscreen to her small son, Lucas. “Come here, Lucas! Come on, sweetie! One…two… Don’t make me get to three!” Her authoritative tone is impressive, and I’m captivated as Lucas finally inches closer for his sunscreen application. I marvel at her ability to manage this without falling in or causing a scene, something I had previously thought only happened in movies.
But none of this shakes my confidence. I’m preoccupied with my own daughter, Ella, who is now swimming like a pro and has just mastered the art of underwater somersaults. I grab my phone to capture her latest achievement to share with her dad.
“Great job, Ella!” I call out, encouraging her to join the other kids on the steps while I put away my phone. After sending a quick text with the video attached, I notice that Ella has drifted away from the group and is now treading water close to the edge. I’m not overly concerned, as I’m only a few feet away and she’s been swimming so well lately. But then I hear her say, “Help,” which is the cue I taught her to use in case of trouble.
I scan the area and see that other children are blocking my path to jump in. If I leaped in, I’d likely land on one of them and look ridiculous, especially since Ella doesn’t seem to be in any real distress. So, I opt for the steps, hurrying because, let’s be honest—when your kid calls for help, you don’t waste time.
Everything is going smoothly until my foot hits the first step, and suddenly, I slip, much like a cartoon character on a banana peel. My arms flail in a futile attempt to regain my balance as time seems to slow down. I brace myself for what’s to come, knowing I’m about to create a scene. My tankini top rides up, and my bottoms become uncomfortably wedged.
My shin scrapes the edge of the step, and I stub my toe on the concrete, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the embarrassment I feel. I find myself submerged, legs flailing awkwardly above the water, and I briefly wonder if the fit moms can see my unkempt body hair.
After what feels like an eternity, but was probably only a couple of seconds, I resurface, grabbing Ella’s arm while discreetly adjusting my bathing suit. I plop down on the steps with Ella on my lap, surveying the scene for any signs of chaos. To my surprise, Ella looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind, clearly unbothered.
The pool area has fallen eerily silent. Every pair of eyes seems glued to me, either in shock or amusement. Finally, one of the fit moms, whose suit actually has a strap, asks, “Are you… alright?”
“Not sure, but I think I’m bleeding somewhere…but I’m fine?” I respond, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as I pull my tankini back down and adjust my wedgie.
For the next half-hour, I’m focused on acting like nothing has happened, trying to shake off the mortification of my unexpected plunge.
In retrospect, there’s no profound lesson here. I fell into the pool, my bathing suit malfunctioned, and it was utterly humiliating. I’ll carry that memory with me forever, and when I’m an old woman, I can only imagine my daughter leaning over me, asking if I have any final wisdom to impart. I’ll probably just tell her, “Only ask for help if you truly need it, kiddo.”
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