Sigh. For shame.
And since I'm disappointing you with that, I'll add one more sad fact into this blog post:
I didn't wear the homemade bikini and therefore avoided the humiliation that was greatly foreshadowed in my previous post.
I brought it.
I put it on.
And then I felt a familiar feeling.
I looked in the mirror in the hotel room and could see that I was already starting to sport the Coppertone Girl look. But there wasn't an adorable black poodle tugging at my bottoms, but my old nemesis, gravity. And this was without the weight of water dragging my drawers down, so Newton only knows how long they would have lasted had I
And, yet, I still considered going out to the pool like that. For the blog. Because I am that much of a whore for an awful story to tell.
But then a voice I so rarely hear peeped up.
"Jen ... what about your diggimy?"
"Diggimy. Or is it dimnity?"
"You know, that thing that you're supposed to have? The belief that you're better than that so you act better than that. Diginimy."
"Wait. Do you mean DIGNITY?"
"Yeah! That's it! Dig-ni-ty," the voice said, familiarizing itself with the word for the first time in years.
I glanced back at myself in the mirror and could see that the voice was right. That there was no diggimy or dimnity in exposing anyone's eyes to the Bikini Bottom Blowout that was getting worse by the second.
So I instead put on what was my most matronly of bathing suits and promptly burned the only skin the suit exposed, my armpits.
But the trip was overall pretty fun. So fun in fact that certain details cannot be revealed or I'd be straight-up murdered by my travel buddy. If I were to edit out any words that would require a Daddy Disclaimer, the trip could be summarized as: tequila, sun, ceviche, tequila, catamaran, Americans, tequila, sunburn, weird ice cream, tequila, mojito, tequila, Thank-God-no-one-here-has-a-camera.
And now I'm back and trying to settle into reality.