The long weekend was my undoing. That cherished-by-most extra day. 

It hadn’t been terribly difficult to dodge the swimsuit bullet on Saturday and Sunday, but by Monday, I’d exhausted my supply of excuses. I was forced to face down the suit. I was asking a lot from that Lycra. If it was capable of performing the kind of miracle I needed, the Vatican should fast-track it for sainthood.  

As I slipped into my suit (I say “slipped” because the process involved a goodly bit of oil to achieve), I recalled another Memorial Day trip to the pool, one I will never forget. No matter how hard I try. 

I had been a fairly new mother that year. Celeste was still in her baby pool days, a timid toddler content to merely moisten her toes while watching other kids play. I, her equally timid mother, sat beside her, attempting to conceal my still-bulgy belly under an inflatable ring, my tired, red-rimmed eyes under dark sunglasses, and my big, ugly feet under the pool’s few inches of water. Although I doubt this needs clarification, I was not feeling attractive. 

I suspect my complete lack of attractiveness is what compelled Model Mom to choose me to sit next to. The moment her size zero toned cheeks touched down upon the cement at pool’s edge, I felt transformed. She was the After. I was Before. My self-esteem was on its last gasps when a self-preservational thought surfaced. No wonder she looks like that. She mustn’t have kids. That body could’ve never been through a birth. 

“Which one is yours?” I asked, already expecting to hear that she was merely the sitter.  She smiled and pointed to a boy preparing to dive. He appeared about ten.  

So that’s it. I thought. She’s had years to recover.  

“And those are my twins over there,” she said, pointing to a set of kindergarten-aged identicals. “And the baby is sleeping over there in the pop-up.” 

She leaned back, stretching her long, muscled legs, wiggling her dainty feet in the warm, shallow water. Her toenails, I observed, appeared to be manicured. 

It was then that I took notice of my own feet, realizing first that my glow-in-the-dark Care Bear Band Aids were flapping and loose, and second, that rather than hiding the size of my feet, the few inches of water served only to magnify their enormity. 

Well, I imagine I’d have time for pedicures, too, if I weren’t working full time, I thought, feeling a bit smug about my latest presumption. 

“It’s so nice to have an extra day out of the office, isn’t it?” she said. “Last week was a nightmare.” She went on to tell me about a case she was preparing to try—some complicated tax issue thing—and how she’d been running so late she’d had to cancel the aerobics class she teaches two nights a week. At a women’s shelter. 

As I listened to her talk, I realized she was one of those moms who have it all under control, who have discovered a magic that enables them to get more from their daily allotment of hours than the most of us do. 

I bet her magic is meth, I thought, feeling mean.

I studied her face and demeanor for signs. She appeared rested and calm. But wait! There were lines around her eyes. So maybe she was managing to be ultra fit while working full-time and volunteering, but her schedule was taking a toll. She couldn’t have been more than 30, but those lines made her look at least a few years older than that.  

“My OB was a bit concerned about having children at my age,” she said. “But I told him 40 is the new 30.” 

“So you were 40 when you had your last baby?” I asked, beginning to feel a bit queasy. 

“Oh no,” she said, laughing. “I was back when I had the twins.”  

It was then that I did what any self-respecting, thick-thighed woman would do.  

I switched pools.

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