Monday, August 8, 2011

I'm not responsible for your boobs.

We had to get out. The desert has it's wonders and beauty but who ever came up with this "Meh, it's a dry heat" needs to go to rehab, because that is a serious drug they are smoking. It has been over 100 degrees for what seems like an eternity here in Arizona. California and the ocean were calling my name. Last minute, I hastily cooked and got road snacks for my vegan, vegetarian and meat eater. We took off Friday at 4 a.m. to go for a much needed road trip to the beach.

However, not before my horrific last minute bathing suit shopping experience, Thursday night. Yes, I do live in Arizona. Yes, we swim in pools here. No, everyone and their mom is not starting at my cottage cheese and back fat when we swim in our backyards- only family who appreciates seeing out of both eyes and know I used to be a much beefier girl than I am now. Who designs these bathing suits anyway? Do they ever take into consideration that other people besides older women and people with teen sized breasts wear them? I was embarrassed for me and I was just looking at myself alone in the dressing room. I didn't cry, talk/cuss to myself nor get mad at my current weight. I placed the blame where it rightfully should be, on the faulty designer. I am not huge (that's me in the photo above) but not fit. I have successfully lost 60 pounds, and fought hard to push out of the plus size arena (I earned every plus size joke I make). But am not at the "YEAH! I'm going to parade around in public in something that covers less than my own underwear." stage.  I decided, after much deliberation, on men's trunks and a polka dot top in XXL. I'm a D cup and apparently that pushes me back into the "you are huge" size chart again. I had the extra material puckering where the "men parts" are suppose to go in the trunks, but that was the sacrifice for not sporting daisy dukes and giving those around me nightmares as I run past. I shudder at the thought.

I haven't seen the ocean in several months. The waves have such an impact on me. It's a cleansing experience and only takes 15 minutes before I am so relaxed, I have to concentrate on not drooling.
We went to bed early and woke up to set up our tent for a day at the beach, which was already getting crowded. I say to my teen, "Hey, can you grab that pole and help me set this beast up?" She mutters, "Great, we are the jerks with the tent." I look around and realize, oh crap- we are. So I ask the fellow beach goers around me if it will be a nuisance that their view will be blocked, and explain my youngest is fair skinned and goes from white to red and back to white again. Most laugh and say they understand. So, I set up the monster.  

My kids are giggling and doing the "can we get in the water?" dance.  Sure-I say. But put your sunscreen on. I immediately get the round of grunts of disappointment. Really?! They act as if I am asking them to take dog poop and smear it all over their bodies right before they give an oral dissertation on the economy in front of their peers. My kids have school photos on Monday and I don't want an 8 x 10 lifetime memory of the time I let them burn at the beach. So I slather their faces, backs, shoulders, and necks and remind them they are now at the age that they are responsible enough for arms, legs, stomachs and other girly parts now.  I am so concerned about the burn and 9 hours in the water I annoyingly call them back every 30 minutes (no exaggeration) for sunscreen re-application. One of my kids is tanning, so she doesn't want 55 SPF on. She literally came back from vacation looking like a different race. The beach sand was everywhere and I was exfoliating their skin every time we reapplied. I was becoming more concerned about the all new layers I was exposing and how irritated their skin was becoming, than the old layers I was trying to protect from the burn. Next time, I will just use spray on sunscreen. 

Alas, at the end of the day-success! Not one of my kids was burned! Except me. I was so concerned about them, I completely forgot my stomach, which is still a lovely shade of dark angry red. 

That night back at the hotel, my daughter asks, "Am I sunburned? My skin feels hot." Seriously?! The "I'm the worst mom" thoughts start creeping in my mind. She slightly pulls down her tank top to reveal a mad, red line on her chest. I sigh and say, "Yes. You are sunburned. But in my defense, I'm not responsible for your boobs. That is your bad for not applying properly."

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