Time to make a splash.

Being a Pisces, I tend to begin thinking about swimsuit season right about now. When I was in my twenties, this was truly a magical time. I spent summers working on Block Island as a waitress. Days were spent on the beach in one of the half dozen bikinis I owned, reading trashy magazines (that hasn’t changed), slathering my Casper-the-Friendly ghost-white skin with Banana Boat lotion, SPF 6. I’d lie on my stomach with my friends, peering over the magazines, checking out the hotties playing volleyball. The guy I had a crush on hardly knew I existed, but I survived. I was thin, tan, and not afraid of donning any bathing suit at all (well, thongs were never my thing).

I had my first baby at 30, and that is when things began to veer off course in this department. Actually after the first baby, the swimsuit wasn’t too much of an issue, but after babies 2 and 3 I probably should’ve considered wearing a wetsuit at all times and just telling people I was taking up scuba diving and wanted to be prepared for my next outing. It is true- black hides everything. No matter how much I exercise, those beautiful children have left glaring evidence of their 9-month condos right in my middle. And with each subsequent baby, my chest went from a modest but acceptable 34B to looking like something straight out of the training bra aisle.

So what’s in store for me this year? I’ve sworn off the skirt, I just can’t do it. I’m hoping it’s never in my closet, but if it has to make an appearance, I have to be at least 70. Who invented the skirt anyway? I’d feel like I’d truly arrived in the Middle Ages of my life and was waiting for my Knight in Rusted Armour. No can do.

I’m more in the market for a suit that will give me a lift up top. My trainer told me about these rubbery inserts you can buy. She actually calls them her chicken cutlets. They are waterproof. You stick them in your top and voila, Dolly has arrived. Knowing me, I’d be doing handstands in the kiddie pool and that would be the end of that. Do I really want to be fishing my cutlets out of the pool? I’ve got enough else to worry about.

The other problem area is in the middle. It’s always been an issue, even back on Block Island. My husband always gently suggests not eating dessert every day, but that wouldn’t be much fun, would it? Chocolate is practically my middle name, so for now I need to work with what I’ve got, knowing darn well that the spare tire is there by my own doing. Do they make waterproof girdles? Perhaps I could roll duct tape around myself every morning?

And so I’ve reached my usual place: summer is just weeks away and I begin to panic. Maybe Sports Illustrated should consider doing a Post-Partum edition. With a down economy, do men really want to look at women who are starving themselves? We moms could serve as a friendly reminder that there is indeed a healthy abundance of skin and booty to make the world a better place. Unless I want to spend the summer sweating away in the misery of my own back yard, I’ve got to get a move on. Time to make a splash.


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