I’ve come to terms with the extra ten pounds I carry and the indulgence of enjoying cake, so the sight of fit moms flaunting their thigh gaps at the pool isn’t shaking my self-esteem—not one bit.
Usually, my kids and I have the pool all to ourselves, so I’m baffled by this sudden influx of perfectly toned women. But, honestly, it’s not bothering me at all. I’m not comparing my own imperfections with their smooth, tanned legs, nor will I dwell on their seemingly perfect figures—seriously, are those even real? It’s astonishing how they manage to keep their strapless bikinis in place without a hitch.
I can’t help but wonder: Do their kids never tug at their tops? If I were in their position, I’d be at a hundred percent risk of a wardrobe malfunction thanks to my little ones. But I’m not here to question the sorcery these women must employ to pull off such outfits; I’m content with my own choices and have let go of the need for perfection.
One of the fit moms crouches at the pool’s edge, a glob of sunscreen ready on her fingers, calling out to a little blond boy. “Come here, Jake! Come on, sweetie. Come here. JAKE. NOW. One… two… Don’t make me count to three!”
I feel the urge to roll my eyes, but I can’t look away from this seemingly magical interaction between the mom and her squirming child. I’m amazed at her ability to manage this without toppling into the pool or flashing everyone. I always thought women like her were purely fictional.
Yet, nothing can deter my preference for tankinis over bikinis. I’m comfortable in my own skin. My focus shifts to my four-year-old, Emma, who’s not only swimming like a pro but has just learned to do somersaults underwater. I grab my phone to capture her latest feat and send it to her dad.
“Great job, Emma!” I cheer. “Now sit on the pool steps while I stow my phone back in the bag.”
As I send a quick text with the video, I notice Emma has drifted from the steps and is treading water just a few inches from the edge. I’m not concerned since she’s become an excellent swimmer, and I’m only five feet away. But then she calls out, “help,” which I’ve instructed her to do in emergencies.
I quickly assess the situation: There are kids in my way, and jumping in would likely land me on one of them. Emma looks fine, still treading water without showing signs of distress. I decide to take the steps instead. I hurry because when your child says “help,” you respond without delay.
Everything seems to be going smoothly until my foot hits the first step and unexpectedly slips, much like a cartoon character on a banana peel. My arms flail as time seems to stretch, and I realize I’m about to crash into someone else’s child. Despite my efforts to regain balance, there’s no saving this fall. My tankini top rides up, and my bottoms awkwardly shift. In that instant, I think—this is precisely why I avoid strapless bikinis.
My shin grazes the edge of a step, and I stub my toe on the concrete, yet any pain I feel is overshadowed by the embarrassment that awaits. I plunge into the water, my legs somehow defying all logic as they remain above the surface. I can only imagine if the fit moms can see my unkempt legs.
After what feels like an eternity but is likely just a couple of seconds, I resurface, grabbing Emma’s arm while discreetly adjusting my bathing suit. I sit on the steps, her perched on my lap, regaining my composure and scanning the area for the inevitable chaos I must have caused. To my surprise, Emma looks at me in confusion, as if to say, “What on earth?”
Not a single child is crying. In fact, the atmosphere has grown eerily silent, with everyone either staring at me in disbelief or pretending to be intensely focused on their own kids. Finally, one of the fit moms—whose bathing suit top actually has a strap—breaks the silence. “Are you… are you okay?”
(Not really.) “Um, I might be bleeding somewhere, but I’m fine?”
I pull my tankini down and attempt to discreetly relieve my wedgie. For the next half hour, I expend all my energy pretending that I haven’t just experienced one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
In the end, there’s no profound lesson here. I fell into the pool, my top slipped, and I faced the humiliation in front of the fit moms. It’s an experience I won’t forget. Someday, when I’m 95, on my deathbed, Emma will lean over, tearful, and ask, “Mom, is there anything you want to say before… you know.”
And with my last breath, I’ll respond, “Only ask for help if you truly need it, dear.”
Summary:
This humorous recount reflects on a mother’s experience at the pool where she faces an embarrassing fall while trying to assist her daughter, Emma. Despite the presence of fit moms and their seemingly perfect lives, she embraces her own choices and the humor in the situation.