28 Days

That's how long I have to whip myself into some sort of shape that doesn't resemble a pear, because in twenty-eight days, I am going to South Beach. Miami. Florida. Sunshine. My BFF Erin and I have talked forever about getting away together, but the more time went by, and the more life-changing events occurred, it seemed that the likelihood was dwindling. Then Pete came to me a couple of weeks ago, like only he could, and told me that Erin (daughter, not BFF) told him that he should "send Mommy away on a vacation." I was relieved that he interpreted this according to the classical definition of vacation and not to mean that "Mommy's finally cracked up. TO THE HOME!!" He told me that I should try to get away for a long weekend.

Right. Sure. I'll get on that.

That night, planetary alignment changed and the axis of the earth somehow shifted because Erin (BFF, not daughter) and I get to talking, me mentioning Pete's proposition, to which she says that she'll check with her hubby to see whether or not he has hotel points with which he's willing to part. And he did! And he was! So Pete offered up AmEx points for my flight, and the next thing you know...We're going to Miami! For FREE!!!!

My joy exists on many levels.

But of course, it is me I'm discussing here, so the joy would not exist without equal if not greater levels of apprehension, fear and self-loathing. They are the following:

1) I have to leave the kids with Pete for three days. Enough said.
2) I have to get on a plane. Alone. Enough said.
3) I will not be referred to as "Mommy!" or "Babe!" for three days. Enough said.
4) I will most likely, if I am to appropriately enjoy myself, have to don a bathing suit. Enough said.

So now I'm hitting the beach in February, which is not bathing suit season for me, and I'm stressed. I hate feeling uncomfortable and feel like I always am when it comes to this issue. So I was at Target yesterday and I was standing at the Dollar Section while Meg pined away for growing pills. (You know those annoying things that you put in warm water to dissolve the gross gelatinous placenta to allow an animal-shaped sponge creature to emerge? Well that's what yesterday's obsession was.) Trying not to listen to the whining, I glanced over at the bathing suits. So cute. So need one for Miami. And there are these two girls, early twenties, looking through them...and I wanted to throw a shoe at them. Because to them, any month is bathing suit season. To them, January is a perfectly acceptable month to need to throw one on. To me, it's my worst nightmare! I'm still in hibernation mode, with that extra layer keeping me nice and warm for the winter. But they have no layer. They do not hibernate. They just walk around being the way they are and whenever the mood strikes them, they can go put on a bathing suit and look fabulous. And this is because they are not approaching middle-age, like me, having birthed babies and experienced the hideous phase that I affectionately refer to as "The Great Metabolism Slowdown." They just eat McDonald's and go to Spring Break and don't give a shit.

I am bitter. This much is clear.

But I am working on turning my attitude, and my metabolism around, once again, and hope that this will be the last time I go through this battle. With my pregnancy days behind me, I really don't have a reason to be carrying baby weight. And let's face it, it's not baby weight anymore when people start referring to your "baby" as a "toddler." A term that I find offensive...but nevertheless, true.

28 days. That's all. 28.