Friday night: Immersion therapy at the pool. "Family Swim Night" is how the clergy cleverly disguised it. More like: "a gaggle of church folk meet at the local swim hole for the great reveal".
Being a blossoming author of a best-selling book on child-rearing, and an exceptional mother, I gathered my rolls about me and donned my most reverent swim suit. My wandering, covetous eye roamed furtively about, stealing glances at the other moms shimmying into lycra tops and bottoms, some clearly less preoccupied at the notion of mixing church and scanty. Strings and blings, proper and plucky- we all waded into the same baptismal.
There's no time like the 80% naked to engage in some proactive self talk. My undisciplined, irreverent eye had already sleuthed the perky from the droopy, and it was time for an intervention. I'd been given the straight up facts from my nurse friend who informed me that there's nothing enviable about an 80 year old sag bag in intensive care when all that defies gravity is her rock hard-earned silicone.
"I love to roll up my breast tissue and tuck it into my Wal-mart swimsuit", I told myself compellingly. "I don't need firm breasts, firm thighs, and firm buttocks."
I reached way back into my mental archives and recalled a truth that had been revealed to me some years back on Saturday Night Live. I breathed in deeply. I whispered tenaciously to myself: "I'm good enough. I'm smart enough, and gosh-darn-it, People Like Me!"
By the following morning, when I read about Anna Nicole Smith's unromantic death, my quavering convictions gained new ground.
Now, Anna Nicole and I have stuff in common. We are 39.
Okay, so I've never danced around a pole. I've never caused mass male stampeding. I've never even married an 89 year old oil tycoon. But still. What was the defining phenomenon that separated Vicki from me? That large-scale breast augmetation.
"Those double D's killed her", I thought to myself.
Maybe I'd underestimated the genius behind the church recreation planning team.
Maybe those faithful few were really onto something with their aggressive immersion therapy techniques.
Too bad for Anna Nicole.
6 comments:
She could have used some of that - a reality check laced with a good dose of grace...
Arghhhh.
No swimming parties for me, thank you.
At least I wouldn't need to bring a purse. I've got lots of flaps I can hide things in.
My keys here, a pen and notebook there, a small child in the belly flap...good grief. And to top it ALL off, I can't even swim.
Judy?
I'd love to go swimming with you! We would be a pair, you and I with "the aunties" and "Darlene" jiggling along with us.
I've started back into swimming because of my foot injury. I don't like wearing bathing suits because of rolls, bulges, sags, etc. but it's getting easier. Most of the women at the Y don't have perfect bodies, none actually, so it's getting more comfortable as time goes by. It's funny you should mention Anna Nicole Smith and her silicone. I was sad to hear that she had died and left a baby girl behind, but then I thought "What will they do with her breasts?" They can't cremate them. Can They?
You are assuming that Anna's breasts weren't real...
gravity schmavity!
Personally I have nothing against AWEgmentation and Yes of course I think that the Government should pay for it.
word verif: asx if h fo
hahahaaaa...
love this, because i was there doing the EXACT same thing!!!
too funny!!!
i really am laughing joyce!!
(not a fake LOL)
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