Author: Jamie Lee
Updated: July 1, 2023
Originally Published: July 1, 2023
In my journey toward body acceptance, I’ve reached a point where the extra 10 pounds I carry no longer trouble me. They allow for indulgence in delightful treats like cake. Thus, the sight of a group of mothers flaunting their thigh gaps by the pool has no bearing on my self-esteem, or so I tell myself.
Typically, my children and I enjoy the pool in solitude, so the sudden influx of these women is perplexing. Yet, I assure myself that their toned figures and seemingly flawless features do not provoke comparison. I mean, seriously, do those strapless bikini tops even stay in place? I can only imagine the chaos if my kids ever tugged on one.
One of these confident mothers, perched at the pool’s edge, calls out to her son, “Come here, Carter! Don’t make me count to three!” I resist the urge to roll my eyes, captivated instead by her ability to manage her child without toppling into the water or exposing herself. It’s almost surreal.
Despite the distraction, I remain steadfast in my own choices, opting for the comfort of tankinis over bikinis. My focus shifts to my 4-year-old daughter, Lily, who is mastering the art of swimming and executing somersaults in the water. I grab my phone to record her impressive skills for her dad.
“Great job, Lily!” I encourage her. “Now, just sit on the steps for a moment while I put my phone away.”
As I type out a quick message, I notice that Lily has drifted away from the steps, treading water mere inches from the edge. I’m not overly concerned; her swimming skills have improved immensely, and I’m close by. But then, she calls out, “Help!”—the very word I’ve taught her to use in emergencies.
Glancing around, I see children in my path, making a leap to her impossible. Instead, I decide to take the steps, quickening my pace—who wouldn’t rush when a child says “help”?
Everything seems fine until my foot slips on the first step, propelling me into a cartoonish fall. Arms flailing, time stretches painfully as I brace for impact. My tankini rides up, and I can only think, “This is why I avoid strapless swimsuits.”
I land awkwardly, my shin scraping the edge of a step and my toe colliding with the concrete. The pain is overshadowed by the impending embarrassment of my fall. As I submerge, I wonder if the thigh gap crew has noticed my less-than-perfect grooming.
After what seems like an eternity, I surface, clutching Lily’s arm while discreetly adjusting my swimsuit. I settle on the steps with her, scanning the area for signs of distress from any child I might have inadvertently harmed. To my surprise, all is quiet. The poolside has turned into a scene of stunned silence, with everyone either wide-eyed or pretending to be engrossed in their children’s activities.
A mother from the thigh gap group finally breaks the silence, her voice laced with concern: “Are you… okay?”
“Um, I think I’m bleeding, but I’m fine?” I reply, pulling my tankini down and adjusting my wedgie as gracefully as possible.
For the next half-hour, I work hard to mask the mortification of what just occurred, vowing to remember this moment for years to come. I’ll be on my deathbed, and my daughter will ask, “Is there anything you want to say before… well, you know.” And with my last breath, I’ll remind her to only ask for help when it’s truly needed.
In conclusion, this incident serves no profound lesson; it was simply an embarrassing moment of chaos. But it’s a reminder that life is unpredictable, and laughter can be found even in the most mortifying situations.
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