Burnt by the Sun

So, like, when will I ever learn?

So I went to the pool with my nieces ("The Watermine!") (I think the exclamation point is part of the name of the park). And every little Irish girl was wearing either a tee shirt or a long-sleeved wet suit shirt thingie? Because their moms were like: "Oh, no, Hannah, we are NOT taking you to the hospital again today!"

But was my mom here to tell me that.

My entire skin hurts! I mean, like: ouch!

Did the life guard(esse)s wear shirts? NO! Is it some requirement that to be a life guard, you have to be this bronzed goddess, perfectly sculpted, and be willing to work for a pay that is less than they charge for lunch at these theme parks?

The dress was all over the map. I wore a one piece. No way was I gonna wear a bikini, because, being Irish, I would be in the hospital now, if I did, AND I don't need to advertise my "no tits, no hips" (lack of) figure.

Okay, I do have a little bit of a bubble butt, but that's like ... okay, I'm slightly pleased with my curve back there, at least I have one, you know, and it's not sagging or BBW, as they say. But nothing to proclaim to everybody.

I'm surprised a lifeguard didn't pull me out of the pool with the stern warning: "You can't swim without a parent's supervision, young lady!"

Self conscious much, `phfina?

You bet.

My nieces could be life guards. They had on one pieces, too: these bright orange-yellow things that contrasted with their bronzed skin.

Okay. Time out. Why does everybody else get perfect-perfect skin except us Irish girls? Except for my hair, I could have plastered myself against the white-washed wall and be totally ignored, but everybody else? Bronze goddesses everywhere in that pool, I swear!

So, anyway: nieces, so we were walking along from slide to slide when another girl, blond, blue eyed was walking along beside us, and she was wearing the exact same orange-yellow suit as my nieces ... about the same age, too. My nieces exchanged smiles with the girl. I had the sudden urge to bring her home and be her mommy, you know? Is that an urge that strikes us at a certain time in our lives? I'm scared, looking forward to worrying about 'oh, my clock is ticking!' where I'll just bed anything to put babies in me.

Um ... but not tonight. I'm off to bed, and I'm eyeing it, and the sheets that look to me now like razor blades with some trepidation. I wonder if I'll be able to rise tomorrow or the next day.

You know what I'm afraid of? Not being able to go to work on Monday, and Cindy or Janet asking, 'But, hun, why can't you come in?' and it'll become this big integrity issue were I coulda-woulda-shoulda but I didn't and it's all my fault.

And it will be, but then, come Monday I may be just fine, so why am I putting these worry lines on my face?

Chillax, `phfina

Okay. Good advice. I'm chillaxin'. Good night!