Last week, Cory had a conference out on the West coast, so I used it as an opportunity to take a week off work and nap. God, I love sleeping. I can’t get enough sleep.
I was talking to my mom the day before we left, and she said, Don’t forget to pack a bathing suit!
Woof. That was the LAST thing I’d ever think of packing.
My response: Mom, there is no fucking way I’m putting this hot mess of a body into a bathing suit.
Let’s remember, my body doesn’t yet look pregnant. I don’t have a cutesy baby bump. I have the body of a collegiate binge drinker and boobs that are monstrously large. Like, not cute. Not cute at all.
But, because my mom can guilt me into doing just about anything, I headed to Target to find a bathing suit. My regular bikinis would not do. My cute one piece looked a little porn-y. It’s with great disappointment that I tell you this, but I bought a mom suit. A one piece with extra fabric around the tummy, a deceitful cut that makes us think it’s flattering, but it’s clearly just a fat disguiser.
And no, I will not be posting a picture of it.
But there I was, walking to the pool and noticing all the hot bodied girls, feeling like I looked 47 and needing to declare: I’M WITH CHILD! I DON’T KNOW MY OWN BODY! I USED TO BE YOU!
As if anyone in the place even noticed me.
Welcome to Crazy Town, ladies and gentlemen.