Speaking of bikinis, let me tell you something I’m dreading.
Taking the kids to a swimming birthday party this month. The party is for my good friend’s daughter, who is one of Primo’s best friends, so there’s no way out of it. Not to mention, the kids will have the time of their life. Not so for me. As soon as I got the Evite, I called my friend:
“What’s the situation with this party? Do I have to go in the pool with the kids? And if so, how the hell am I supposed to do that without putting on a bathing suit, the which I try never to do in front of people I know????”
“Trust me, I know,” she said, “Do you think I want to run the party while wearing a bathing suit? What can I do? She wanted a swimming party.”
“How thoughtless of you,” I said, “To put the hopes and dreams of your child before my vanity. I don’t know if we can still be friends.”
Thankfully, she solved my problem by suggesting that I appoint David as the In-the-Pool-Guy and myself as Pool-Side-Supervisor. That way, everyone would be happy. Except David. Because though he cares not a fig about being half-dressed, he does care about being splashed so much its almost water torture and getting kicked in the groin repeatedly as the kids launch off him to try and “swim.” Suspiciously, David has since informed me that he will be visiting a friend out of state that weekend so I’m back to square one.
“Do they really need a parent in the pool with them?” I asked my friend.
“Not if they can swim,” she replied.
Nice. Now I’m the bad guy for considering giving priority to preserving my vanity rather than preserving the lives of my two can’t-swim-in-a-bathtub children.
The last time I wore my bikini, it was in Italy and it didn’t matter how I looked since I was so pale compared to the suntanned Italian ladies that I think I blinded beachgoers with my whiteness, rendering them incapable of seeing my body at all.
I TOLD David we should have signed those kids up for swim class.
At least I can record this in my martyr ledger. That’s some consolation.
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