I was wearing a new(ish) bathing suit I’ve had for about two years and still feels like it probably has the store tags hanging from it.

I stood at the edge of the water on Chloe duty while Greg and the girls jumped waves and giggled, weaving in and out of the shark migration and I pretended I wished I could be out there with them if only Chloe wasn’t so demanding and these adolescent girls didn’t need me to remind them what foot to put forward next.

One of the girls said to her friend in a voice she had no intention of me hearing but for those of you who have ever tried to run on sand, imagine the level of difficulty trying to walk shoulder to shoulder and have a meaningful, quiet conversation about a mother of three with eight of your besties.

“I like that woman’s bathing suit. That’s exactly what I want to wear when I’m in my forties.”

“Me too!” I wanted to yell.

“I’m thirty-seven,” I mumble to the shark fins.