What I Discovered When I Took a Dive in Front of the Thigh Gap Brigade

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I’ve accepted my extra ten pounds, which conveniently allow me to indulge in cake, so the sight of sleek, thigh gap moms lounging by the pool isn’t exactly shaking my confidence. I mean, really, who are all these women? Normally, the pool is just me and the kids, but today, it feels like a runway for the effortlessly perfect.

I’m not fussed about comparing my own cellulite to their toned thighs or their seemingly flawless figures, not to mention their impossibly perky chests (seriously, do those even exist?). Each one of them is expertly balancing their strapless bikinis, and I can’t help but wonder: do their kids never yank them down? If I wore one, my little ones would surely have it off in seconds. But hey, I’m past the point of striving for perfection. I’ve embraced my tankini, thank you very much.

One of the thigh gap gals squats at the edge of the pool, sunblock on her fingertips, calling for her little boy. “Come on, Jake! Get over here now! One… two… don’t make me count to three, Jake!” I roll my eyes internally but can’t help but be mesmerized by her grace as she manages to apply sunblock without falling into the water or revealing more than intended. People like this only exist in movies, right?

But my focus shifts to my own four-year-old, Mia, who is swimming like a pro and just mastered underwater somersaults. I grab my phone to capture her latest achievement and text a video to her dad. “Great job, Mia!” I cheer. “Now hang tight on the steps while I put my phone back in the bag.”

As I turn back, I spot Mia treading water just inches from the side. I feel calm—she’s an excellent swimmer, and I’m only a few feet away. But then she calls out, “Help!” which is the magic word I taught her for emergencies.

I quickly assess the situation: a bunch of kids are in the way, and jumping in might not end well for anyone involved. But she said “help”—I have to move fast. I rush to the steps, but the moment my foot hits the first step, it slips like a cartoon character on a banana peel. My arms flail, and time slows down in that cringe-worthy way we all dread. I’m sure I’m about to land on some poor child, and in the chaos, I think, this is why I don’t wear strapless bikinis.

My shin scrapes painfully against the step, and I jam my toe on the concrete. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the impending embarrassment. Submerged now, my legs are somehow flung over my head, defying gravity and dignity. I wonder if the thigh gap moms can see my unkempt leg hair peeking out.

When I finally surface—what feels like decades later, but was probably just a couple of seconds—I grab Mia’s arm and discreetly tuck a wayward breast back into my top. I sit on the steps with her on my lap, trying to regain my composure and listening for the cries of the child I must have crushed in my dramatic plunge. Instead, Mia looks at me like I’m the crazy one, utterly unfazed.

The pool is eerily quiet. Everyone seems to be staring, jaws dropped or pretending to be fascinated by their own kids. Even the little ones are astonished, like, “What just happened?”

Finally, one of the thigh gap ladies—who is actually wearing a one-strapped suit—breaks the silence. “Are you… okay?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Um, I think I’m bleeding somewhere… but I’m fine?” I reply, pulling my tankini down and trying to discreetly handle my wedgie. For the next half hour, I channel all my energy into acting like I didn’t just experience one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

The end. So, no big life lesson here. I fell into the pool, and my top came off in front of a bevy of perfect bodies, and it was mortifying. I’ll never forget it. Someday, when I’m old and on my deathbed, I’ll look at Mia with tears in her eyes and say, “Sweetheart, only ask for help if you really need it.”

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Summary:

In a humorous account, I share my embarrassing experience of falling into a pool in front of a group of seemingly perfect moms while trying to help my daughter. Despite the cringe-worthy moment, I embrace my flaws and focus on my daughter’s achievements, leaving behind a lesson about asking for help only when it’s truly needed.