While vacationing in Florida with my husband and 2 year old twins, we decided to explore the local beach. Whenever I daydream about the beach, I must forget that I have kids now because my daydreams always seem to include the crashing of the waves, the wondrous sensation of the warm sun on my back and face and the sands of time slipping between my toes. These moments of delirium never include the constant reminder to not throw sand, the struggle that is the application of sunscreen onto two children who seem to have lost all their bone rigidity or the wailing when said children are placed under the outside shower to be cleaned off for the ride home. Oh, and let’s not forget my daughter’s compulsion for cleanliness, aptly demonstrated by her decisive statement of “dirty beach” as the sand covered her little legs on the first few visits of the vacation.
That said, it all went pretty well considering the reality. We arrived at the beach and after much patient coaxing, managed to convince my daughter that sand was not created by Satan himself. My son had already covered himself in the devilish substance and was having a great time picking up as much as possible. Yes, throwing it too.
As I was sitting on the wet sand by the water, playing quietly with my daughter, the onslaught of potential navy seal recruits began. I kid you not, they just kept coming. They were running along the beach, doing sprints, carrying and dragging each other. And yes, you guessed it, they were shirtless. We’ve all seen a 6 pack or two, but an 8 pack is hard to come by. Not with these young gentlemen. 8 packs galore. Now that is what I call eye candy. My husband complained that he didn’t get his turn with bikini girls running, but that’s another story entirely. I felt like I should have been in an episode of “Sex and the City”. Samantha would certainly have known what to say and there’s no chance it would have been appropriate.
So, back to my Navy seals. I know that they were busy with their calisthenics and all, but not a single one seemed to notice me until I directed a specific question. At that point, the young man in question answered me concisely, politely, and moved on. And that was when it hit me. I have become that age of woman where we become invisible. It’s not that I think I’m unattractive. For a 35 year old woman who gave birth to twins 2 years ago and who doesn’t/can’t make time to exercise off the baby weight, I’m not bad. Despite my generous size, I think I present myself pretty well, but I’m not turning any heads when I walk into the room. When I gaze into the mirror, I find myself recognizing that I am “her”. The mom, the lady who gets called ma’am in the supermarket, the woman your lost kid would approach for help. You know, that woman.
And you know what? I don’t mind it one bit.
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