Of course with a holiday weekend full of people bouncing around in their bathing suits, conversation naturally erupted over the dreaded bikini wax. One girlfriend refuses to have it done without downing a Vicodin. Another girlfriend recounted a tale of bolting out of a salon after the first swipe. Wanting to have something to contribute, I commented that I hadn't waxed since I produced children. My Miniature-Friend was appalled.
Miniature-Friend: But what about when you're wearing a more revealing swimsuit?
Me: I wear a swim dress. Razors work for that.
Miniature-Friend: But you're not going to actually wear a swim dress (said with complete disdain) when you're on a romantic trip with your husband and sitting by the pool? I mean, you'll get a cute little suit for that, right?
Me: I haven't gone anywhere alone with my husband for longer than 18 hours since 2004. Plus, I've had three c-sections, gall bladder surgery, and I like Cocoa Puffs. There will be no cute little suits in my future.
Miniature-Friend: Poor, sad Marianne (she forgot "lumpy").
My Miniature-Friend is a size 0. She runs and works out constantly and has the enviable little figure of a 16-year-old. There is no physical evidence that she actually birthed her own two children. I honestly don't know why I'm even friends with her.
|I love you, Swim Dress|
Which brings me to a quick discussion about this past Friday. We had planned to have the kids skip camp and instead head to the Warren Dunes. Joe even turned down a work call at his 2nd job. Tom Skilling, WGN weatherman, assured us it was going to be the hottest day of the year. Notices to "check-the-elderly" were hand-delivered to our door. Inspired by a sweltering forecast, we happily packed our beach stuff, loaded up the cooler and waited for the Grandma-Killing scorcher we were all promised.
At noon it was 75 degrees with 30 mph gusts and clouds. Joe kept insisting the temperature was about to shoot up. I put the kids in the minivan and dropped them off at camp. Joe looked like he just found out there wasn't a Santa Claus. Then he got mad:
I mean, I can understand being off by 5 degrees or so. But 30 degrees off? This is f$%cking ridiculous. I could be a weatherman if this is the level of accuracy expected.
In a sour mood, he threw himself down on his recliner to watch the Cubs-Sox game. Due to the storm the night before, the cable of course was still out. He then proceeded to spend an hour on the phone with Comcast. He took a week's worth of frustration over wood-chippers, jack hammers, unfulfilled beach plans and T.V. outages out on an unsuspecting cable rep.
Ah well, better him than me.
Thankfully, Joe still managed to enjoy sufficient water time this weekend courtesy of the highly-sought-after "friends-with-pools." And I got to sport my stylish new swim dress up until the time when a giant brown dog jumped in the pool with us and Jack had a nervous breakdown.
Please just keep in mind that an appropriate level of modesty is truly a gift to those around you when you do not have a Sports Illustrated cover model physique. I just wish somebody would have told these people that: