My husband and I were stoked to bring little baby Steven to his very first MVFD/MFVFD picnic. We both grew up "firehouse" and have been members of fire departments since our youth. Steve is an ex-chief of Mahopac Volunteer Fire Department. I grew up with Mahopac Falls Volunteer Fire Department members, doing truck checks and racking hose on and off until I graduated law school, moved into Carmel Fire Department's district and joined there. I ultimately became a desk officer there until Steve and I moved wayyyy far out of their district. Steve still fights the good fight to be an active member at MVFD. I can't even think of doing anything firematically until my son's in grade school...where would I put him if there was a fire and I had to ride a truck?
Anyhow, I digress. At one point, while I was staring into my walk-in closet to select my outfit for the picnic, my husband advised me that it was going to be 90 degrees.
"Oh, Jesus!" I put my head in my hands.
"What?" Steve asked.
"It's a friggin' fat person's nightmare! Don't you get it?" I wailed. "I can't hide my fat body in long sleeves and long pants...I can't wear black because I'll roast, and I actually have to put this body in a bathing suit. Good God, does anything fit me that's NOT sweatpants or maternity clothes?"
Dressing little Steve was easy. After all, he has folds of fat, but people adore that in a baby. People look at him and coo, declaring, "Look at those thighs! I just want to eat them!"
Now, people, please, no one says that when they look at my goddamn drumsticks. Trust me.
I ended up wearing black, because I was going to vomit anytime I saw myself in anything white...you could see through it, see the rolls, see the slovenliness, the slothfulness of my flesh. I did find a bathing suit that worked, but it was a bikini...I'm a Libra, we don't DO one pieces, thank you very much. Someday I'll reclaim my old body, and quite frankly, the bikinis in my drawer will be getting some serious mileage.
The only shorts I had that didn't cut off my circulation were sweat shorts, so there I was, huffing and puffing like I'd run a marathon the first five minutes at the picnic because I was wearing black thick material. But they were still shorts, and the top was short sleeved. I had my hair slicked back and in a bun. Well, why not, you say? After all, it's 90 degrees and muggy out. Your hair'd only be the functional equivalent of white girl afro if you don't do that. True. But when you're fat, your cheeks stand out like chipmunk jowls without a fringe of nicely trimmed hair to camouflage it all.
The nicest thing I could say about my body that day was that I had a pedicure and facial waxing the day before. Halle-friggin-lujiah, my dogs weren't barking and I wouldn't tickle Steve with a fu manchu if we made out. Oh, I'm frightfully yummy, with my fat wiggling and jiggling like a Jell-O rodeo.
The only nice things I can say about the day is this: I ate three ears of corn, one spare rib (trimming away fat) and a handful of Goldfish, drinking nothing but water and...OK...most of a can of Bud Light Lime. (It tasted like it was brewed downwind of a lime factory). I did hit the pool (refreshing!) and spent most of my time in the water, where my pendulously porcine figure was obscured by the water and dozens of bodies churning the surface all around me...and, of course, my family and I enjoyed all our friends! Baby Steven amazed everyone with his swimming, kicking and paddling around (while he was being held by someone, of course)...he just took to the water like a fearless little fish, though. He loved all the kids, big and small. And at one point, I found my inspiration for the next leg of my fitness journey.
Miss Baywatch.
Oh, yes, I think you could ask any firefighter there, married or single, young or old...he saw her that day. Young, nubile, blond, tan, with a bright red bikini and a whistle dangling strategically about her decolletage. You couldn't pinch an inch on her--not that I'm sure we couldn't get a gaggle of guys willing to try. Her body was PERFECT. I'm not even kidding. She had cut arms, a tight high rump and an abdomen that sported a six-pack. Her hips had that hourglass curve that mine used to have. I actually do believe that I used to look very much like her...minus the blond hair, red bikini and whistle.
"What are you looking at?" my girlfriend Mandy asked me, neck-deep in pool water next to me. Big Steve and little Steve came drifting by, little Steve paddling furiously, barely able to see above the floppy brim of his protective bucket hat.
"Her!" If I pointed any more intensely, I may as well have morphed into an Irish Setter.
"Oh, God!" Mandy moaned. "Why?"
"I want her body!" I exclaimed.
Two guys behind me dropped their conversation abruptly.
"Not like that!" I told them. They groaned and returned reluctantly to their discussion. I turned to Mandy. "I want to look like that...you know, minus the blond hair."
"Stacey, she's sixteen, or something like that. She's a kid."
"I don't care. I want that look...I want to be cut...I want to be healthy and fit."
And you know what? I bet I can get there! I will focus on that image as I work out, sweating, stinging, swearing until I've finally melted away the last of the Jell-O Rodeo from my frame, in much the same way a pregnant woman chooses a focus object when she's in labor.
But instead of birthing another child, I'll be birthing a new, healthier, happier me.
Oh, and for those that missed a music reference today, you can insert in the background the title track from Hawaii Five-O. ;)
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