Page 4 of Comin' in Hot
“Am I uptight? Have I become our mother?”
“Blasphemy,” she rushes out, but I cut in.
“I came to a retreat named Bliss Babes. In fucking Malibu, with, with…” I wave a hand in front of my suitcase. “I don’t want to be the girl on the beach in a blazer. That’s not blissful. It’s hot…in the bad way.”
Moon’s eyes lock on mine as she chuckles. “You’re not uptight. I mean, you were a little, but who wouldn’t be, married to a guy who makes everyone call him by his full name? Trust me, you arenotour mother.”
I blow out a harsh enough breath that it makes my lips flap. “Regardless. There’s only one answer. I have to burn it all and start fresh.”
“Or…” To accent her point, she leans over my suitcase and closes the top. “We zip it up and go shopping. I’m free the rest of the afternoon since it’s just arrivals.”
Her hip bumps mine before she throws an arm over my shoulder. “How about we replace the stripes with polka dots? And ban everything navy. It’s time you got a little whimsy back. A whole new Margot.”
I’m nodding along because hell yeah. New era, new me.
“I’m in. But shoppinganddinner. Because tonight, I’m gonna need a glass of wine, a call with my niece, and some shit-talking with my sister before I start the journey of becoming the best version of myself.”
“You’re already the best version,” Moon says with a smile.
She’s right. Especially now that I got rid of the piece of shit smudging my shine.
Four hours later and too many bags to count, I’m back in my room. This time with raised brows that feel permanently locked in place, mainly out of awe over my own audacity.
“What was I thinking?” I whisper to myself.
Apparently, whimsy meant buying a butter-yellow polka-dot bikini.
All I know is it’s the kind of bathing suit that proves whether or not you’re pro Brazilian wax.
I am, in fact, not. Something I tried to explain to my sister as she pushed the idea like a high-level coke dealer. I left the store afraid for my life and simultaneously excited for an experience she’d convinced me I needed.
But now, alone in my room, my decisions are beginning to haunt me.
See, I’m a full-bush kind of gal. I live on the East Coast for the love of god. My vagina’s made for cold weather. Our clits require insulation. And this bikini is cut for a Kardashian. I’ll need a full taper fade for my labia.
But that’s not even my biggest problem because apparently, now that I’m forty, that means there’s hair on my ass.
And not the peach fuzz kind. Actual hair.
It’s also surprisingly long.
A slight breeze can make the atrocity tickle.
Something I just discovered applying self-tanner. I bent over, gave a spray to rub in, and felt it say hi. The fact that I’m applying tanner on my ass is already ridiculous enough. But unlike the residents of Malibu, my ass has never seen the sun. Ever.
It stays inside my pants. Where it belongs. I’m a woman who owns full-back underwear.
And I love them.
Alas, that ideology has now brought me here to my current problem—can I wear a thong bikini with carpet ass?
Like, is it armpit hair at Lilith Fair? Or am I just a fucking Sasquatch with a future ad for L’Oréal billowing in the breeze as I walk?
On the upside, I suppose I should be filled with gratitude knowing that if I ever journey through thinning hair on top, I can grab it from the bottom.
I groan, staring at my ass in the mirror as I imagine walking out to the beach tomorrow morning to shocked faces and stares.
“Is that a shadow? Is there enough back there to make a shadow? Jesus.”
