“I just love summer.” Exclaimed the Midget’s teacher this morning on this first warm day of summer like temperatures. Oh do you? Well sister, I can tell you right now that I will not be joining your perky twig-like ass in that sentiment. Much like I will not join you frolicking on the beach, prancing about in a bikini or wearing any thigh baring attire. “I just love summer” is not a statement one would ever hear passing from the lips of a chubby girl. And most certainly not something a pregnant chubby girl like myself would even dream of uttering. While the rest of the world here in my city has been lamenting the horror of a winter that seemed to hold on for eternity, I was secretly sending prayers of thanks through my online portal to St. Jude. Another week of furry clogs, jeans and flab concealing sweaters? Sign me up.
For about 35 of the 41 years of my life, I have dreaded summer. Part of it is due to my paper-white Irish skin that, if not glowing like a night-light, is a red beacon warning of impending skin cancer sometime later in life. Regardless of my varying degrees of chub – and trust me, in 41 years there have been a lot of varying degrees of chub, I have always dreaded summer. I haven’t donned a two-piece since I was 4 and I haven’t gone sleeveless since 1989. Yes, I know, I’ve seen plenty of those women who have no shame, pour their sizable asses into tiny bikinis and leave their ham-like arms exposed to flap like flabby flags in the breeze and each time I think – “You go girl.” I wish, hidden deeply within my soul there was one of those women who didn’t give a damn that the world could hear the rubbing together of her thighs from 12 feet away. But alas, she does not exist and the older I get, the more fabric I seem to require to make a public appearance. My shorts now must be at least knee length and my sleeves must graze the elbow. I’m assuming by the age of 60, I’ll be rocking the Bea Arthur caftan.
It’s not just my own body issues that cause me to dread the summer months, it’s my issues with other’s bodies as well. In the winter, the majority of humanity has the decency to cover their hammer toes and fungused nails with boots and closed toe shoes, yet somehow when the thermometer hits 70 degrees, all bets are off. You can’t even walk through a decent Target without being assaulted by hairy pits and neglected toenails –and God bless those poor souls that might venture into a Walmart during summer months- I hear it’s like a freak show wrapped in cheap fabrics and body hair. It’s simplyt indecent I say. If Barak would just get back to me on the position I requested within his administration as Czar of Public Decency, my first proclamation would be to make it a law that if you want to expose your metatarsals, they must be pristine - clean, well manicured and neatly filed into uniform size and shape. This of course would be followed by no cheap flip-flops, no sandpaper heels and of course manicured body hair in all exposed regions. And don’t even get me started on the BO.
One would think having survived 3 years of harsh summers with four months of temps in the 100’s in a country filled with BO and generally void of central air such as Turkey, I might be better acclimated to the milder summers of America, but alas, no. In Turkey I viewed summer as a torture akin to water-boarding that I simply had to endure to come out on the other side. I hid under umbrellas, laid before fans and held my nose on all forms of public transportation. To be honest, the Turks aren’t big fans of summer either, they just adapt better. They flee to the sea, life slows to a snail’s pace and they drink hot beverages to trick their bodies into believing they aren’t as hot as they could be. The minute it gets into the 80’s here my Turk shuts down and reverts to his genetics. And the Midget? With his gene pool, he’s just a mess in the warm temps- surly, snarky, whiny, slow and ½ sunburned.
As it’s only the first of May and considering a significant portion of the country is getting snow, I rest assured that I may have a few more days of fashion safety within me before I too am forced to bare arms. But with that in mind America, let me urge you to take this time to take care of yourselves. Fix your hammer toes, shave those legs and by all means, if you feel the need to expose your cellulite to the rest of us, use a little self-tanner. As my mother always said, “Tan fat is far more attractive than pale fat.” Amen Mom.