I Have Fucking Pool Mum Thighs
And how I spent hours searching the internet for a bathing suit to avoid a changing stall
I was 12 years old when I saw my first pool mum.
I was wearing my favourite neon pink one-piece with black graphic print, a la 80s, and watching two bikinied teenage girls giggle. I admired how their hip bones peeped over their string bikini bottoms. I sucked in my stomach. Think thin, be thin!
Then I saw pool mum in a black one piece lean over her sun lounger. I watched her large, pox looking thighs shimmer as she picked up a book. Quelle horror!
I swore I would never let myself go like pool mum.
It’s Bathing Suit Season
Here I am getting ready for my first tropical holiday in 8 years and dealing with all my fucking bathing suit garbage. I have those EXACT pool mum thighs. The thing I was desperate to never, ever, not in a fucking million years have is right here, attached to my body.
They ambush me from every mirror as I get out of the shower, or pull on my underwear.
They sigh and remind me I’m too fat when I squish them into a rigid plastic seat.
I spent hours, no fucking joke, hours searching the internet for a new bathing suit this fall, when I should have been cleaning out the fridge because someone spilt sticky juice all over the top shelf and it leaked down the back.
I turn to the internet gods because I refuse to expose my naked body under change room fluorescent lights. I refuse to touch those flimsy hygienic liners that don’t stay on the crotch. I refuse to feel hot and trapped while being polite to the 24-year-old perky assistant called Amber asking, “Is everything okay?” over the cubicle door.
NO EVERYTHING'S NOT OKAY IN THIS GOD DAMN COFFIN OF NAKED, POXY FLESH!
“Fine, thanks.”
That whole experience is a middle-aged woman war crime that I refuse to take part in.
When the bathing suit did arrive I put the plastic envelope on the dining room table and left it. After failing to ignore the stupid package for two days I ripped it open and strategically put on the one piece single-shoulder suit just before my daughter got home from school.
I heard the click of the front door, the boots being banged off and the backpack not being hung up and pranced out with my light-weight confidence, “Look at me in my new bathing suit...”
“Woah, mum, so fancy,” said my 10-year-old with a genuine smile.
Thank fucking christ she’s so kind. And oh, fuck I’m relying on my 10-year-old for body positivity. We’re fucked.
Poxy-Old-Thighs
I have not come to terms with my poxy-old-thighs. I should probably start by not calling them, poxy-old-thighs. But what I do see now is that pool mum is MORE than her poxy-old-thighs.
If 12-year-old me had watched pool mum with care I would’ve seen her unpack 4 snack bags for the gaggle of kids in her charge, because her best friend started chemotherapy this week and needs a break from her two. I would’ve seen pool mum smile because she was able to actually read her fucking book because the kids were old enough to not silently drown. Pool mum would’ve closed her eyes for a moment and then remembered that she hadn’t booked the cat into the vets yet and the oldest has to be at the dentist tomorrow morning at 8:20am.
Pool mum is way more than her fucking thighs. She is:
keeping her cool when the toilet paper roll is empty
trying to raise her children as empathetic humans
finding tiny pockets of her own happiness in between playdate coordination and hauling grocery bags from the car to the house.
Pool mum is RUNNING THE WHOLE FUCKING BUSINESS OF FAMILY AND DOING IT WITH POXY-OLD-THIGHS.
So, to all the pool mums out there I love you.
I love us.
Wishing you a good poxy-old-thigh week,
Love Elizabeth
Ps. This is the bathing suit I got and as far as body dysmorphia goes it’s pretty good.
“Pool mum is RUNNING THE WHOLE FUCKING BUSINESS OF FAMILY AND DOING IT WITH POXY-OLD-THIGHS.”
What a beautiful tribute to pool mums and their powerful thighs 🥹
The thighs are keeping it all together! 😉