I don’t want to talk babies. I don’t even want to commiserate with other moms. What I really want to do is fly to an island—alone—and spend a week at the wet bar. And for anyone who knows me—the-sunburn-after-two-minutes-in-the-sun me—it must be serious for me to crave a sunburn.
I’d have to wear a bathing suit. And, because I can’t wear my pre-pregnancy ones (thank you extra baby weight), I’d have to buy one of those horrible suits, like the tankini. Or worse, a suit with a little skirt to hide my bigger butt.
And I’d have to get a top with a built-in push-up bra because my boobs have deflated quite a bit. Let’s be honest, no one likes perkless jugs.
While we’re painting the mental picture, let’s add the streaky fake tans lines I amass come summer. They’re uneven, they’re overlapping, and they turn my body into a sophomoric geometry lesson. Nothing better than the Pythagorean theorem on your asscheek.
Maybe I can find a wet bar where you have to wear blindfolds.