As I sit here, adjusting my swim skirt and glancing at my soft, squishy thighs, one overwhelming thought crosses my mind: I absolutely dread public pools.
My daughter, Lily, is splashing about with the carefree exuberance of a four-year-old. My partner, Jake, casually removes his shirt, gives his pale stomach a quick poke, shrugs, and dives in with a splash. Meanwhile, I remain rooted to my lawn chair, completely immobilized by the sight of my stark white legs exposed to the sun, all while clutching a large beach bag on my lap like a shield.
I can’t help but reminisce about the days before adulthood when I dashed around in frilly bikinis, spending endless summers in the pool. Back then, I could swim with my eyes wide open, plunge to the bottom effortlessly, and spring out of the deep end in seconds, chasing after friends at the slide. The idea of running around like that now—clad in this braless swim dress? No way! I quickly wrap myself in a towel.
A gaggle of fit, tanned moms strolls by in their tankinis, and I can’t help but feel a pang of envy. I think I might even despise them more than the giggling teenagers who loudly tease each other while pulling at their bikini strings. I adjust my straps and hunch my shoulders, painfully aware of my own marshmallow-like appearance.
“Mom! Come swim!” Lily calls out, her voice filled with excitement. Jake squints at me, “Aren’t you too hot to just sit there?” I shake my head, but I can see his annoyance and Lily’s disappointment. I can’t find the words to explain how my limbs feel like they belong to someone else—how the cute swimsuit I tried on at home now seems like a ridiculous muumuu, or how I’d trade anything for my jeans and a real bra.
As I scan the pool, my gaze lands on a fellow mom—just a regular mom—sporting a charming swim dress. She’s holding her child’s hand in the shallow end, oblivious to the Tankini Brigade and the raucous teens around her, completely at ease with her own thighs. She’s laughing, encouraging her toddler to venture deeper into the water.
Looking down at my towel-clad self, I feel foolish—and hot. Who really cares about my “egg carton” thighs? Why should I let those silly boys’ smirks get to me? I’m missing precious moments to teach Lily how to swim underwater!
Summoning my courage, I rise slowly from my chair and focus on my daughter instead of my jiggling cellulite. I make my way down the pool ladder, determined to embrace the joy of the day.
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In summary, I discovered that overcoming my insecurities at the pool can lead to enriching experiences with my daughter. By letting go of my self-consciousness, I can embrace the joy of parenting and create lasting memories.
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