thelucky7

When I was a kid (circa back bubble float days), the pool party was the most coveted invitation of the summer. I’d bribe, brown-nose and barter my best stickers for a spot on the guest list. It signified a day of swimming, hamburgers, swimming, candy and more swimming. I was a pool whore and it didn’t matter who the host was – I was going to be there in my purple polka-dotted one piece.

Fast-forward to my 30th year when decades of too many candies and hamburgers and not nearly enough swimming have left me mortified of such an invite. I intently studied a photograph the other day that showed a peer hosting one of these scantily-clad shindigs on the roof of his midtown apartment complex. Women were straddling lounge chairs with their boobs spilling from behind tiny triangles of lycra while men in baggy swimming trunks swigged frosty mixed drinks. They were tightly packed around the shimmering square of water, seemingly unmoved by their mostly-naked sweaty selves draped about. I was shocked to see that they appeared to be having a good time.

I was envious of their self confidence and equally horrified. The mere vision of such an event sent me into panic. I just couldn’t do it. It would be like walking around in my underwear in front of 20 men. I’d die. I am ridiculous. What is wrong with me?

I wonder if I were happier with my body if I’d be more comfortable doing these things – things that are fun and um, normal. I traced my dread of the pool party back to my teenage years when I began to feel very self-concious about how I looked, almost obsessive. I’ve never overcome my body fears and they manifest themselves in very silly ways that most people don’t understand. I can’t say they’re warranted and I’m aware that they are trivial and irrelevant, but I can’t seem to let go. I still love swimming and do so often in the summer, however, these days I do my laps alone in the privacy of a gated backyard. Perhaps I need to succumb to a nudist colony and just be done with it. They’d straighten me out, I’m sure.

My father told me yesterday that I should try pole dancing on the weekends to make some extra money. The weird thing is that I wasn’t talking about needing any. I think he was kidding, especially since this is the same man who last week made a really hilarious joke about me dying.

I’m now hoping to uncover a long lost adoption letter proving I’m not actually related to him.

So I was talking to my CSS yesterday (that would be my Consistently Shrinking Sister) and I was confessing my guilt and shame for making my own donuts on Sunday and deep frying them in a vat of oil.

“I know,” she says. “Mom and Cliff came over last night with banana ice cream and I ate an entire bowl. I felt so fat. But I hadn’t had anything sweet in a week. That’ll last me for a while!”

I felt much better, really.