Embarrassing Myself at the Swimmin' Hole

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 . . .