Just Keep Swimming

And so, while the kitchen slowly, nearly imperceptibly improves in appearance, I busy myself with life.  We are having a heat wave that would remind you never to be sent to Hell. Thank God I have a pool membership.

I love the pool. It is not the pool that I went to as a child (and earned the nickname "pool rat" with Charlotte and a few others) and the kids can not walk there (which is what I am sure my mother loved most about the proximity of our club) and the life guards aren't nearly as fun (which I am sure will eventually irritate Hil) and there is no roped off Adult Pool (which when I think about it was a nice feature, however irresponsible) but it is a nice pool with lots of kids from my kids' school, and lots of fun things to do, and a reasonably priced menu at the Snack Bar.

But I have noticed that it draws its members from neighborhoods that I don't know very well, and the people are a little odd. The membership at my childhood club was largely families. Large families. And they all lived within a certain distance of the pool property.

This pool has its share of families, and the requisite oldsters, but it also has quite a few middle aged single types.  (Though I may technically qualify for this group, I count myself in the Family set.)  This is the group I find myself observing from behind my Foster Grants.

There is the shapely but beer bellied overly tanned woman who should have forfeited her bikinis a few years ago, who sits smoking a cigarette (prohibited but the 16 year old life guard would never dare say anything) with one hand clicking away on her blackberry with her long bedazzles acrylic nails. And when she's stubbed out the butt, she twirls her over-processed hair --- twisting long ringlets from where the hair protrudes from a scrunchy.  She prances around talking on the phone and putting on a little exhibition, and her voice is that of one who regularly eats ground glass. She also manages to put on a show when exiting the pool. Think Phoebe Cates in Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Shameless.

And then there are the middle aged men who carry on like teenagers on the water. Throwing balls, making a ruckus, being overly loud (even in comparison to the dozens of kids) presumably to get someone's attention (and probably getting the attention of the above woman when she is not clicking away a text message)  They are like giant, hairy five year olds.

And there are the men who have just given up and wear elastic waistband trunks and thick blobs of NoseKote. Really? 

And the women who would like to strut around like the beer bellied lady, but are a little more self conscious about their weight. They wear firmly constructed one piece bathing suits, accompanied by a pair of shorts. Like the shorts aren't going to immediately lead you to assume the worst about what lies beneath. Seriously. Like a soaking wet pair of drawstring gym shorts is going to improve matters.

I have no interest in being noticed by or befriending any of these people. I am there to swim with the kids, get a little frivolous summer reading in, and while I am at it, get a savage tan.  I do wear a fabulous suit, though. I am no Bo Derek but I can still wear a two piece, and do so with pride.

I remember when I thought I could not.

When I was dating J. we took frequent trips to his mother's house and joined the entire extended family in fun filled days in the pool.  (Until of course there was that dreaded wedding episode and my hideous little shout fest with the Insipid Sheila and then my show down with Endorra that ended with me calling her a fat old hen. I wasn't invited back to the pool much after that.)

But when I first went, J. had asked me to wear a conservative suit. (I don't own any string bikinis, just sayin') I was not sure what he meant. I never wear anything too revealing, but this is a bathing suit situation, so I was baffled. He explained that since every single living person in his family could easily be mistaken for the Hindenburg, and I had a decent, slim shape, there would be tension.

Tension?  Excuse me?

Yes, they'd think I was showing off.

Well I'm sorry, fatties, but I am who I am, and I am no more going to cover up in a one piece (like that would conceal the fact that I was separated by at least 100 pounds from each member of the family) than I am going to wear a space suit into the pool. How dare you even sugggest it.

I defiantly wore a South Beach appropriate suit  with a fabulous cut that made me look like a Sports Illustrated cover.  And ate hot dogs and hamburgers in record numbers, just to send them sailing over the edge. Jealous, ladies?  Do a few laps.

What a waste of energy.  And three years time.

Now, two years later, I am more comfortable than ever in my own skin, and even more so in the pool, with my kids, and in a bikini, and who I am attracting or offending could not be further from my mind. And Scott would never ask me to do differently.