I believe I may have mentioned, once or twice, that I struggle with my weight. I am a Lifetime Member of Weight Watchers, and I have decided that this means I will spend the duration of my lifetime watching my weight. Watching it go up, probably.
I also believe I have outlined my feelings about wearing a swimsuit in public. I despise it, and I happen to live in a neighborhood FULL of Beautiful People. But my children love the pool and hanging out with their friends, and I don’t want to punish them because of my own insecurities, so I suck it up, suck it in, and head to the pool.
A few days ago, I took them to the pool for an evening swim, figuring they’d splash around, tire themselves out, come home and get a bath, and go to bed. It was all part of my master plan to
watch Real Housewives of New Jersey in peace after they were asleep and perhaps enjoy a glass or three of wine
get them some exercise and help them burn some of their boy energy in a healthy
manner. This is the first summer where I
feel like I can sit within the confines of the baby pool and keep an eye on the
older two in the big pool without fear of them drowning. . . not so much because of their swimming skills,
but because they can reach the bottom of the pool with their feet.
I took Small over to the baby pool because he exhausts me in the big pool. He has NO fear of water, which is nice, except when he takes off at a sprint and jumps into the pool 5 feet from where I’m waiting for him with my arms outstretched.
Upon closing the gate, I noticed my friend M’s Hubby was sitting on the side of the baby pool watching their youngest splash around. Hmmmm . . . I thought. I’ll walk gracefully over to M’s Hubby and engage him in polite and sophisticated conversation, perhaps about the upcoming presidential election or Lindsey Lohan’s most recent run-in with The Law.
As I approached the baby pool, I was watching Small, who had jumped in right at the 1 foot mark. That’s 12 inches, or approximately the size of one step on a stairwell.
Do you know what’s NOT approximately the size of one step on a stairwell? The 1 foot, 10 inch section of the pool where M’s Hubby was sitting, and where I decided to step into the pool.
I stepped into the pool as if I were stepping off a cliff like Wile E. Coyote in a Roadrunner clip. Meep-meep.
I fell in, lost my balance, and landed on my *ss, no doubt making a splash big enough to cause a tsunami at the beach-entry end of the pool. I imagine babies were flying into their parents’ arms as if they had been catapulted. M’s Hubby was struck mute with a look of shock/horror and open-mouthed awe at the acrobatics he had just witnessed.
I picked myself up and sat on the edge of the pool next to him, and of course my swimsuit made that uber-flattering slushy-squishy sound as my wet suit met the wet pavement. Super.
“You know,” I said, “you’d think I’d be embarrassed, but the fact is, this kind of stuff happens to me so often, all I can do is shrug my shoulders and wait for the next time I commit some act of self-humiliation.”
It wasn’t awkward at all . . .