As words are my life, it is hard to stump me with new combinations or phrases. There are words I adore, some I dislike and others I simply abhor. My two worst words are the “c” word referring to women and the “P” word referring to one of her parts. I’m also bothered by the word fart but can at least commit that one to paper. What’s got me considering words is lunch with Long Time Bestie a couple days ago.
She, along with the best friends on earth, helped me move last month. She says it is time for a girls’ night at the new abode. The balcony looks over a courtyard featuring a unique fountain filling the condo with a most soothing sound. Most days and nights the balcony door is left open for maximum enjoyment. Bestie isn’t much of an outdoor girl so the suggestion that cocktails and hors d’oeuvres be served on the balcony causes near shudders and she suggests opening a window instead. We’ll see who is declared the winner.
Having known me quite a while, she realizes condo doors will not open until all inside is perfect. She knows my nature and accepts it. I tell her it’s almost ready and she points out that girls will come from far and wide and pajamas may be in order. The last time the ladies gathered for an overnight, Dignified Blonde had her first dirty martini. The third found her passed out in Baby Chicken’s bed. When The Beauty Jewels’ husband came to retrieve her, he found female conversation too much forcing him to decline our offer for a cocktail. He thinks we did not notice the side eye to his bride signaling, “Let’s get the hell out of Dodge.” Sisterella, as always, provided comic relief and we learned a new word combination. Dirty martinis and new words? Bonus!
Words and phrases which baffle me are usually tacked onto the ends of sentences on young people’s phones. I join the ranks of mothers worldwide taking an inordinate amount of time to distinguish “Lots of Love” from “Laugh out Loud.” Hint: lots of love really isn’t in the lexicon. Inappropriate texts is the key to learning this lesson.
But this night, martinis in hand, the girls learn a new phrase. I remain stumped as to usage and struggle with a clever way to pop it into conversation. Even I, acknowledging its’ use of one of my abhorrent words, find it hilarious.
Conversation is innocent enough. We discuss dance and cheer, of which a number of our progeny participated. If you’ve watched Dance Moms, you may be surprised to find that amongst reality fare, this one is the most accurate. We laugh at the moms we know for whom dance flows through their veins and sucking up to the studio head is de rigueur in order to see their little one front and center wearing eyelashes meant for an elephant and enough blush for a french whore. This is the dark side of dance and those of us who spent years at competitions refusing to go head to head with the crazies often wonder if it’s the reason our children spent a good portion of their time secured in the second row. Our competitive side does feel a twinge of guilt now and again.
There is an amazing side of dance to be sure. Dance teaches a sense of respect for one’s body and what it can do with hard work and dedication. Most dancers have great appreciation for their bodies, no problem being naked after all those back stage quick changes and become cheerleaders or pommies, the holy grail of high school life for a dancer.
We discuss various pom coaches, some we like and some not so much and we travel down memory lane as our daughters span the gamut on a certain high school team. And one mom blurts, “The girls really didn’t like her and besides she had a FUPA.”
Conversation ceases as we don our puzzled faces. FUPA, we question. “What is a FUPA?”
“You’ve heard that before,” the mom replies.
“Nope,” say we.
“It means Fat Upper “P” word (think cat) Area.” Evidently one of our coaches was so very revered the girls took to noticing her fat stores. Perhaps when she was jumping up and down, who knows?
Silence for just a sec. And then uproarious laughter enough to make the next door neighbor turn on the back porch light. Did I mention we are outside at the rental house?
Of course, we cast our eyes downward to see if we, too, are FUPA afflicted. Evidently, there are moments in life when one should feel blessed by an ever expanding ass and the ability for fat to find its way to ass, hips and thighs. Possessing a FUPA I might actually find bothersome. As opposed to my ass. Pfft.
It would take dancers to notice, and give a name, to FUPA. Girls who work so hard to stretch, punish and refine their bodies to flex beyond measure, stand for hours in metal toe box shoes and practice moves repeatedly in the reflection of the sliding glass door are keen on each and every body detail. These are the girls who break into spins at the grocery store or run and leap through the long halls of the mall. Dance mothers are not fazed. We may even comment on a leap’s height or grace. We understand the terror of the words, “Let’s go across the floor” or the need to tape breasts lest they make errant appearances at the recital. The legs and backs resulting from this level of work is astonishing. They are sleek and sinewy and defined. The adage, “If dance were just a little easier, it would be called football,” is indeed a truism.
More than once this mother pondered, “If I put in half the time they do my ass would shrink to a normal size in no time.” And then decided a martini was a better choice. On this night, however, my thanks go to my ever expanding ass and its graciousness in storage of my fat. A FUPA on top of everything else might just prove my undoing.