Fat, Forty & Frizzy

My birthday is coming. It’s my fortieth and we’ve decided to take a little vacation. We’re going to a water park. An indoor water park. Alas, I can’t even pray for rain to keep me inside and, more importantly, fully dressed.

If it were the birthday of my dreams, I’d be spending it at a luxury resort, drinking expensive wine at a five star restaurant. Heck, I’d even settle for a bottle of beer and room service at a chain hotel.

Never would I have imagined myself at a water park. I really don’t know what made me think it would be fun to celebrate by spending three days in a bathing suit. I get woozy just packing the thing in my suitcase. Being an indoor water park, the temperature is maintained to a constant eighty four degrees. I’ll be having my first hot flashes at forty, as I sweat beneath a head to toe cover-up, with my hair frizzed out to Diana Ross proportions, ducking from the view of video cameras, for fear I’ll wind up a joke on You Tube, under a title like: Fat, Forty and Frizzy or Fatty Takes the Plunge. Well, you get the idea.

The truth is this vacation isn’t really about me. It’s about the kids. And by kids I mean not only the offspring, but my husband, too. I wonder who will be harder to drag, kicking and screaming, from the inner tubes…him or the four year old. I’ll be calling them for dinner or bed and it will turn into a wet game of hide and seek, them having the advantage of being able to spot my large white thighs and mile high hair from a distance of forty yards. Eventually, I’ll give up and head solo to the buffet.

But it’s not just about them having fun. It’s about them being occupied, the one amenity that five star resort can not provide. They just don’t know how to bask in the delight of lounging under the shade or honor the elegance of a high tea. You’d be amazed at how quickly a crumpet can be transformed into a Frisbee.

So, the water park it is. While they are splashing and sliding, I may actually be able to sneak away and have something more valuable than a one hundred dollar pedicure; a moment – maybe even two moments – of privacy.

It’s not that I won’t swim and slide and dabble in the wave pools. It’s just that I won’t do it as often as them. Instead I’ll be walking, writing, resting and thinking thoughts uninterrupted by little voices asking for a grilled cheese sandwich. Who knows, maybe I’ll meditate myself into a state of inner peace that sends me cannon-balling into the rapids without a thought as to whether I’ll cause a tidal wave.

Look for me next week on You Tube.