Ohmygosh. I just received an e-mail from one of my fav stores. Sometimes I delete it so I’m not drawn into the shopping temptation. But tonight I opened it, curious to see the spring fashions and to my horror there were pictures of the dreaded…. swimsuits. I looked them over and then realized that this was no coincidene. This was a God-given wake-up call. I started counting and panicked as I realized that I have approximately six weeks until I have to don the dreaded piece of apparel necessary to chase 4 boys on a beach packed with way too many 16-year-old hard bodies.
Okay, I know I’m prideful here and no one really cares and I’m a mom and all that stuff, but every woman wants to feel confident in a swimsuit. No one… and I mean no one… wants to be the cream puff lady sitting there covered in the mumu watching the action. I want to be in the action. I’m not asking to look like the models on these pictures or even like the 16-year-old spring breakers, but I do want to feel comfortable in my own body as I search for shells and pretend I love jumping in the waves, feigning bravery as I fear being stung by a jellyfish.
I was thinking about cancelling my fitness training session tomorrow and going to the local breakfast joint with some friends but I have been shocked into submission. All this, of course, after I ate about 25 pieces of chocolate. I don’t even like chocolate that much.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, the day my husband will give me goodies and I will give him goodies and I will give the kids goodies, and I will eat all of my goodies and some of his goodies, and then steal a little of my kids goodies because I will want the variety of all of it. Then I will feel sick and fat and gross, and then the swimsuit trauma will hit again.
I have heard it said that “acceptance is the answer” to many of our problems. Um, no. That sounds like a great philosophy if you run over the cat in the driveway, or you burn the lasagna that you wanted to serve to your dinner guests who are arriving in 10 minutes. Those are the sorts or things that you have to accept because the cat is not going to come back to life and the lasagna is not going to unburn itself. But jiggling in a bathing suit… that is something I don’t want to accept. At least not yet. Maybe I just need to grow up more, become secure and embrace my body.
I think I will someday… embrace my body, that is. I would just like to make sure I’m embracing a little less of it.