You are my favorite season of the year, and I’m sad to see you go. I keep trying to convince you to stay, but apparently I “repulse you in swimwear.” Whatever. I still love you because you give me an excuse to wear flowy dresses that hide my stomach fat.
Not only do they hide bulges, the dresses allow me to get away with not wearing Spanx, which makes me more pleasant to others. I’m far happier when I’m not scratching my crotch every five seconds and whining that my ribs are breaking from the force of nylon. Thanks for that.
So I guess I will send you off with a farewell letter. It’s the only thing I can do since you won’t stay in exchange for a sweet coupon book that entitles you to discounts at local restaurants. Apparently you aren’t a thrifty shopper. Noted. Instead, I will send you off with a goodbye letter and count down the days until I see your lovely face again (and then curse myself for not dieting over the winter).
I guess this means I can say “so long” to the poorly behaved kids at the pool (or maybe I can yell this with excitement instead). Looks like you will have to fend for yourself another year without having me around to give you dirty looks and remind you that you’re not special. You’re really not. Your mom might tell you that you’re improving with your swimming lessons, but we both know your dives suck.
Sayonara messy ponytail. Most people wore you because it was trendy, but I wore you because I’m lazy and was excited that something messy was in style for once. Unfortunately, other disheveled looks like rumpled dresses and stained t-shirts haven’t hit the fashion circuit…yet.
Goodbye constant stream of sweat going down my back into my pants. You always seemed to come around at bad times, but your presence made me giggle (mostly because it tickled). I won’t even hold a grudge against you for all the times you made my ass hospitable to swamp-like creatures.
See you later ladies at the pool, with bodies of women in their twenties, and faces that haven’t seen sunscreen in years. I will miss mocking you and trying to figure out if your outfit came from Charlotte Russe or Forever 21. (P.S. You are not Forever 21. You’re not even “Forever 39″ despite the fact you’ve had a 39th birthday the last 5 years. We can count and we’ve been counting both the years of your birthdays and the crows feet around your eyes.) I think I will miss you most of all.
Until we meet again,
This post was originally featured on Lisa’s blog.