Friday, July 27, 2007

Splish splash

Well, summer is in full-swing here in Southern Cal which means the temps are starting to climb up towards the 90's and no doubt will break the 100 mark within a few weeks. ~barf~ Which is all about 40+ degrees hotter than my sweating, red, whiny ass can take. ~hurl~ And I just checked our current gas & electric bill and was pleasantly surprised to see it was only $130.00. Clearly there's a lot wrong with that picture. ~gag~

Last summer I took a day off to attend a memorial service and get-together to say goodbye to a dear lady and fellow riding buddy who lost her long and valiant battle with cancer. Unfortunately her timing, which was notoriously bad, differed not a bit on that day since she decided to leave this world during a heat-wave and about 70 of us tried not to expire ourselves as we told stories of our lady through tears and sweat under a blistering 103 degree sun. It sucked the high hard one but we knew she'd be laughing and saying, suck it up and have another sangria.

When I was younger and living far inland from the beach, which hasn't fucking changed at all since I still live 20 miles from any kind of semblance of a refreshing breeze, we'd head to the ocean for a break and some boogie-boarding when boards were made of burlapish covered styrofoam (don't think I'm kidding.) My parents didn't take us very often since they weren't the "take the kids somewhere fun" kind of people but I did get to go now-and-then and usually loved it.

One such excursion was with the youth group I was involved in at my church. They piled a large group of us in the half-rusted church van and various station wagons and headed for the shore for the day. One thing that bears explaning is this church group was not your typical bunch of Christian kids reading the bible in their spare time, volunteering at old-age homes and treating each other with kindness. (That's typical, right?)

We were kids of privilege and sported attitudes and were on our way to being professional back-stabbers with no grasp on the concept that there was only one ultimate judge and it wasn't our pimply selves. Needless to say, we were up to our assholes in judgement of each other and the leaders were party animals and basically it was like a bad John Hughes movie with crosses and no fairytale endings.

I don't even know why I signed up for this stupid outing since my few years hanging with these people, most of whom were complete assholes and my closest friends, (which is totally interchangeable when you're a 14 year-old girl), and there was a major issue causing me mountains of anxiety. An undeniable fact that has burdened me my whole life. An experience-altering situation that effected almost everything.

I was a chunker.

I was born a chunker, I grew up a chunker, I will always be. A chunker.

It's the way my DNA is built. My little double helix is thick and crowned with a ding-dong. I've craved sugar since I took my first breath and even if I ate nothing but bean sprouts and carrot tops I'd have boobs that could smother a small child and an ass Sir Mixalot would be proud to tap. Of course I'd like to be different and blah blah that's a topic for another time but my point is, the chunker was going to the beach. With people. And would have to wear, I'm sure you'll feel my pain...

A bathing suit.

I was totally worried about it since the girls I grew up with, and who were my direct competition, were fucking built like fucking chopsticks with feathered fucking hair. One friend was actually too skinny and looking back now I wasn't like a mack truck or anything but standing next to her even a normal sized person would appear to be one wafer-thin mint away from exploding.

I couldn't talk to my mother about my woes since she was naturally thin and has never understood my struggles and frankly I wanted the entire universe to pretend I didn't have this problem. Instead I had a crying fit and proclaimed, while standing in front of my stuffed closet, that I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO WEAR and please why can't I have a NEW SUIT all my old ones are HORRIBLE and UGLY.

Which was true. I grew up in a house with a pool, as did all the neighborhood kids, and our swimsuits were hammered, faded, misshapen messes before we reached the halfway mark of our summer vacations. My mother obliged my tantrum but neglected to take me with her to make a decision on the perfect torture accoutrement and when I got home from school the day before I was going to the beach with all of those thin people, I found this on my bed:

pinksuit2 for the blog

When, pulled over my fluffy flesh, looked more like this:

pinksuit1 for the blog

Which caused my selfish, ungrateful eyes to well with tears because, GAH, pink! I had a healthy hate-hate relationship with pink and saved a special animosity for hot pink. This was the WORST possible choice in the history of choices but my other suits were tattered shit and I had no alternative. I tried not to get hysterical and mustered up some bravery and wore it. And hell, I was a character and funny and maybe no one would notice my hot pink nightmare stretching across my butt.

The next day I was dropped off at the church, met up with the group and we headed for the crowded beach. It was amazing how many people had crammed onto the limited supply of sand and the waters were full of swimmers, surfers and the like. Things were going surprisingly well and I'd gained a bit of confidence throughout the day and decided to ditch my t-shirt and take a dip in the ocean to cool off. Big pink ass and all.

I was by myself and swam out past the breaking waves and was bobbing along in the water peaceful and happy. Minding my own business and perfectly fine I decided to do this little maneuver that I often did in my own pool, sinking under the water and slowly breaking through the surface by doing a modified breast stroke. Instead of pushing the water behind me while being horizontal to the water I pointed both hands towards the sky and pushed them down to my sides with popping myself through the surface.

It really was a zen thing for me and I was a very strong swimmer with approximately 12 years of water time under my belt and in no way was I in any type of physical jeopardy whatsofuckingever.

Which apparently escaped the psychotic and overzealous female lifeguard who mistook my controlled and untroubled floating in 8 fucking feet of calm water as hysterical drowning and took it upon herself to "save" me by screaming in my face, flipping me on my back and smothering me with her rescue buoy strapped around my chubby middle where she then proceeded to kick the living shit out of me while hauling my now air-deprived carcass as she violently yanked me through and under the water exposing my face in the direct line of crashing swells and maniacally dragged me by my hot pink swimsuit until the back side was crammed so far up my crack it took a professional spelunker and a jar of vaseline to get it out and I was deposited choking and sputtering in all manners of public humiliation neon mightaswellhavebeenabeaconofwhitehotpinkglory by the beserk wanna-be super hero right in front of 4 thousand beach-goers and my 28 friends. And chaperones.

That suit mysteriously disappeared soon after.


Avalon said...

Oh my.

I can't think of anything else to say.

NouveauBlogger said...

Hysterical! Great tale.