So here we are, almost the end of May in Lowell, 35 days until the first day of summer and I have not even thought about a bathing suit yet.
OK — you got me. I lied.
I have been thinking about that malicious material they call Lycra every second of my day. Even the sight of string cheese sends me into a critical self-appraisal, trying to determine in the bathroom mirror how on earth a piece of thread will look good when I can still see the extra helping of mashed potatoes from Thanksgiving on my hips. Turn around and there are the two slices of cheesecake I had to have on Christmas Eve.
Now my entire waking hours are spent stressing over my first poolside party of the season. As I take that second spin through the Southeast Asian Restaurant lunch buffet — all right, you got me, it’s the third — I start to make my stomach queasy thinking about those boy shorts. Maybe that’s the curry, but still.
Then there are the times when I promise myself to eat a piece of grilled chicken at a cookout, but somehow seem to have a hot dog or sausage before I leave — stomach ache. And every time Pete Bouchard says the five-day forecast is for beautiful, sunny, 80-degree days, I have a full-on ulcer.
As I am writhing in pain looking for the Pepto-Bismol in the medicine cabinet, my gal-pal calls to excitedly tell me that it looks like Wednesday will be a beach day and she’s calling in. Great — now where is that extra-strength Imodium?
Not only is she excited about putting on her string bikini, she is using a sick day. I tell her I am way too busy at work and remind her of that norovirus that took hold of the office last year — doesn’t she want to save her days for the second outbreak?
Apparently not, because she went, saddled herself up to the outdoor bar on the strip of Hampton Beach and spent the day sipping margaritas oceanside looking for Mr. Right Now. So why is it that all of my other single friends are slim?
I’ll tell you why. With the amount of time they spend sweating over when their newest love interest is going to call them, they lose all of their water weight. Then from running around downtown Lowell between bars so they can just “happen” to bump into them, they burn off the added calories from that pitcher of sangria. There is also the loss of appetite they suffer after bumping into the hottie’s live-in girlfriend.
Seems simple that all you have to do to lose weight these days is lose your mate.
Britney Spears did it. Once K-Fed became the Fed-Ex, Britney had a meltdown— of fat that is. She went from looking like a bloated Barbie doll from the trailer park to a hot single mother all the dads drool over at the playground. The Britster put down the Cheetos and picked up a cheetah-print bikini.
It is not only the stress of trying to find that man, it’s also dodging some of your less-than-stellar suitors that slims you down. You know that the walk from your desk to the bathroom would be a hop, skip and a jump — well, actually just a hop — if you didn’t have to take a total detour to avoid a certain recent divorcé who has taken a liking to everything about you. Sometimes you resist that urge for a mid-afternoon trip to the vending machine just to remain in the protection of your cubicle. This saves you empty calories and empty promises as well.
Sorry, guys, but it is a tough decision — bikinis or boys. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, unless of course you’re taken.
What would you choose, the bikini or the boy? E-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.