It's the final countdown (Ahhh...a big-hair-band reference. Hey, Europe, what are you doing in my blog?). A little less than six days left on my Lubbock trip. My mom and I dragged ourselves in the sweltering heat to our favorite new place...the lazy river, at my beloved alma matter, Texas Tech. Tech's student recreation center is the second largest in the nation and they've just added a "leisure" pool...which is really a huge complex consisting of lap pools, a hot tub, various slides and diving boards, a cafe run by obnoxiously rude student workers, and a manmade lazy river that whisks you around the perimeter of the whole place. Only it wasn't so lazy yesterday.  It was more like a sea of floating freshman. 25,000 students turned out to get their swim on before classes started today.  

So, I finally elbowed my way through the student bodies to find the last two deck chairs, sandwiched between the edge of the river and a group of scantily clad (and dripping wet) boys. I say boys because, next to them, I felt like Grandma Yetta. But the proximity to said boys allowed me to engage in a favorite pastime, eavesdropping. The mysterious, cryptic and chlorinated society seemed to be speaking a language from planet Kashyyyk. But, from what I could make out, they were talking about girls. More specifically, "chicks."  

Ahhh..."chicks." Never has a word had more implied meaning and less satisfactory a dictionary definition. Dictionary.com defines "chick" as 1) a young chicken, 2) a child or 3) slang, often offensive, a girl or young woman. But say it to a woman within earshot and she'll likely have one of two reactions.  If she insists on going dutch on dates, majored in Women's Studies in college, or read any part of The Feminine Mystique, well...you know what her reaction is going to be. Then there's the other woman, to whom "chick" is the ultimate compliment and station in life. 

So, it left me questioning. Am I a chick? Have I ever been one? The kind that men discuss amongst each other and pine for? In their secret societies with their secret hats and handshakes? As I pour over the pages of my own romance novel (or self-help manual) and wax sentimental about my sweethearts past, I am faced with a glaring reality. With the exception of a couple of beaus, I have been the one pining and pursuing. (I even ran one guy down in the street...but that's a story for another day).

One of the most common complaints among overweight women (and men, I'm sure) is feeling invisible to the world around them. Well, amen sisters (and brothers). But come on, wearing sweats, socks with sandals and the fat-girl-given-up uniform is NEVER going to be secret-society-worthy. I might as well be wearing a sign that says "Stay away or you'll be sorry." And as much as I would love to blame the little fat fairies for force feeding me a sleeve of Girl Scout cookies and then throwing me out onto the streets dressed in God-knows-what, I've got only one person to blame.   

So will I ever be a chick? Am I prepared for the level of chickness that comes with losing 60 pounds and shedding baggy jeans for little black dresses? I don't know. But I can't help but think that my future partner-in-crime and I are going to look back on this blog and laugh. Laugh at the idea that I ever questioned my chickability. And maybe, just maybe...he'll show me the secret handshake.