Ready? Set? Panic! It's nearing the end of June, friends, and time to face the music, er ... mirror and come out of hiding. Sooner or later well-meaning folks will beckon the pleasure of your company at celebratory summer bashes in the Backyard. That's "Backyard" with a capital "B" because that dreaded portion of real estate contains an actual - gulp - swimming pool.
"Come casual," your host will say, "and be sure to bring your bathing suit."
Oh, boy, is this an invitation that makes you wish the Earth would open up and swallow you whole or what? I mean, what happened to all those long, dark months of winter when you (and by "you" I mean, of course, "me") swore you'd be on the road to health and fitness with the results all packaged up in a nice firm body? Yep, once again you made that old, perpetual promise to yourself that this summer you'd frolic in the pool, rejoicing in your rock-hard abs, your perfectly sculpted arms. Instead, how did you spend the winter? Curled up in front of the fireplace with wintry comfort foods: mac and cheese, clam chowder, creamy pastas and a jar full of chocolate chip cookies because (and ain't it the truth?) - nothing banishes winter blahs like cookies.
Now it's time to pay the piper. Yes, I could bring along my swimsuit to the festivities, but that's all I could do with it this summer party season. My more fetching swimwear hasn't been near this body since approximately 1972. Perhaps I could bring my swimsuit along to the party and, like, drape it casually over the back of a chair as if I was, you know, actually going to appear in it at some point.
Sure I have bathing suits that fit, more or less, which I traditionally slip on immediately prior to sprinting a 40-yard dash into the pool so I'm in deep water before anybody knows what happened. "Gee, I don't know what that was, Frank; all I saw was a blur and - oh, say! There's Gale in the pool! I didn't even see her go in!" But then there is the little problem of getting back out again. Treading water in the deep end for eight or nine hours is such a bother and brings out those pesky Nervous Nellies who hover at the edge of the pool worrying about your health. "No, no, I'm fine - don't mind me," I call to them cheerfully, "I love midnight swims. You guys just go on to bed; I'll let myself out."
No, that approach definitely has its disadvantages. Downing a burger and potato salad in the deep end is a chore, not to mention it gets dang cold once the sun goes down. Add to that the tragic fact that extremely long periods of time in a swimming pool leave my skin waterlogged for days, as if I had recently swam in from the Titanic.
In my 20s a quickie diet and a bit of exercise ensured I'd be in shape for swimsuit weather. And there was never a lack of interesting, exotic diets one could embark upon. My personal favorite was the water diet. The theory was if you drank copious amounts of water your body would "flush" out all the nasty flab accumulating around your thighs, leaving you with a stunning, beach-ready body. I was young and single and decided this was fantastic - I'd go on the water diet and become so svelte I'd have to beat guys away with a stick. I consumed gallons of water - I couldn't wait for those pounds to flush out. Unfortunately "flush" was the operative word with the water diet; I didn't venture far from the powder room all summer. I mean, that water has to go somewhere! Sadly I'd believed I'd be scoring lots of dates but on the water diet the only thing I went out with was the tide.
Over the years I lost track of the diets I tried although the liquid protein or "Last Chance Diet" is the one I believe was personally devised by Satan. Created in the '70s when people had the kind of sense that inspired guys to wear leisure suits, this diet was simple: swallow a few tablespoons of gunk that, in comparison, made pond scum taste like champagne. It was a substance, and I am not making this up, derived from bovine "by-products" melted down into a thick, gaggy mess that was "disguised" with grape or cherry flavoring. Finally, hovering on the edge of mad cow disease, I abandoned the diet when I found myself eyeing wallpaper paste with longing.
Today getting into shape for swimsuit season presents a challenge. Showing up at the gym in mid May just doesn't cut it anymore. "Can you make me cute by summer?" I ask the peppy gym membership person hopefully. This is when the peppy gym membership person, wearing briefs made from dental floss, pales a bit before recovering her composure and scolding me that it took "more than a couple of months" to gain the weight so now I must be patient as I take it off. Oh, sure.
OK, so it's too late for me this summer, and I'll just resume my routine summer coping strategy. I'll go to parties gussied up like I was running for president of the Junior League. "Oh, darn!" I'll gush breathlessly. "Forgot my swimsuit! I was so rushed, having tea with the queen and all, and then the Clintons called and they're all set for cocktails this evening, and - oh, my! Is that Gladys in the pool? She's been treading water how long? My, that's impressive. Well, don't worry about her - she'll just let herself out later. You know - when it's dark."
Gale Hammond is a writer and freelance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill 24 years. Reach her at
GaleHammond@aol.com.
Gale Hammond Gale Hammond is a writer and freelance photographer who has lived in Morgan Hill 24 years. Reach her at GaleHammond@aol.com.
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