I recently discovered that my favorite bathing suit had disappeared. I liked it….. I wouldn’t say I looked good in it, but it was beautiful. Black background with magnificent flowers of many tropical colors. I just liked the fabric, and it was comfortable. And it’s gone. I don’t know, I can’t explain that. It’s vanished into a parallel universe, apparently.
So, now that hot weather is upon us, and I do like to cool down in outdoor water in the summer, I had to go to Wal-mart (yikes #1) to buy a new one. As a “well-rounded woman,” looking over the possibilities (yikes #2) and trying them on (yikes #3) were an exercise in maintaining my sense of humor and self-worth in the face of that no-nonsense mirror. ‘Nuff said.
I did finally find one I like….. I am now the somewhat shocked owner of a bathing suit with a skirt. Hmmm. Never thought I’d say that! But I have to admit it actually does look better on me than my previous mysteriously vanished suit.
And the whole experience reminded me of this piece of humor which came to me by e-mail a couple of years ago. I don’t know who the author is, but it gave me some giggles. I hope you enjoy it!
The Bathing Suit
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I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and humiliation known as buying a bathing suit. When I was a child, the bathing suit for the woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman with a mature figure. Boned, trussed, and reinforced, those swim suits were not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a darn good job.
Today, stretch-fabric bathing suits are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped out of marble. The woman with a mature figure has little choice. She can either front up at the maternity wear department and try on a floral costume with a skirt and come away looking like a hippopotamus that has escaped from Fantasia - or she can wander around any run-of-the-mill bathing costume departments and try to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of fluoro
rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around. I made my choice and disappeared in to the small chamber of horrors known as the fitting room.
The first thing I noticed about the bathing suit was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The lycra that goes into bathing suits was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets by a sling shot. And it comes with the bonus that as long as you can lever your body into a lycra suit, you can protect your vital organs from shark attack; the reason being that any shark foolish enough to take a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer from jaw whiplash injury.
I fought my way into the first suit but as I twanged the last shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror. My bosom had disappeared. I found one cowering under my left armpit. It took a little longer to find the other - flattened beside my 7th rib. The problem is today's suits don't have bra cups.
The mature woman is meant to wear her bosom spread across her chest like a speed hump. I realigned my speed hump and turned to the mirror to make a full-view assessment. The suit fit all right. Unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out of the top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of playdough wearing an undersized piece of cling wrap. As I tried to work out where all these extra bits of me had come from, the sales girl poked her head around the curtain. "Oh, there y'all are," she gasped.
"Yes, they are ALL me," I replied, looking at the extra bits. "What else have you got?"
I tried on a crinkled cream one which made me look like designer tape. I tried on a floral two-piece which made me look like an oversized napkin in a napkin ring. I struggled into one of leopard skin with a ragged frill and ended up looking like Tarzan on an off day. I donned a black one with a net midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning, and I tried on a pink one whose legs were so high cut I would have needed to wax my eyebrows to wear it!
Finally - success. I found the one that fit. A two piece with a short style bottom and halter neck top. It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge friendly.
I bought it. When I got home I read the label: "Material may become transparent in water." I am determined to wear it. I just have to learn how to do the breaststroke on dry land.
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I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and humiliation known as buying a bathing suit. When I was a child, the bathing suit for the woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman with a mature figure. Boned, trussed, and reinforced, those swim suits were not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a darn good job.
Today, stretch-fabric bathing suits are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped out of marble. The woman with a mature figure has little choice. She can either front up at the maternity wear department and try on a floral costume with a skirt and come away looking like a hippopotamus that has escaped from Fantasia - or she can wander around any run-of-the-mill bathing costume departments and try to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of fluoro
rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around. I made my choice and disappeared in to the small chamber of horrors known as the fitting room.
The first thing I noticed about the bathing suit was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The lycra that goes into bathing suits was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets by a sling shot. And it comes with the bonus that as long as you can lever your body into a lycra suit, you can protect your vital organs from shark attack; the reason being that any shark foolish enough to take a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer from jaw whiplash injury.
I fought my way into the first suit but as I twanged the last shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror. My bosom had disappeared. I found one cowering under my left armpit. It took a little longer to find the other - flattened beside my 7th rib. The problem is today's suits don't have bra cups.
The mature woman is meant to wear her bosom spread across her chest like a speed hump. I realigned my speed hump and turned to the mirror to make a full-view assessment. The suit fit all right. Unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out of the top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of playdough wearing an undersized piece of cling wrap. As I tried to work out where all these extra bits of me had come from, the sales girl poked her head around the curtain. "Oh, there y'all are," she gasped.
"Yes, they are ALL me," I replied, looking at the extra bits. "What else have you got?"
I tried on a crinkled cream one which made me look like designer tape. I tried on a floral two-piece which made me look like an oversized napkin in a napkin ring. I struggled into one of leopard skin with a ragged frill and ended up looking like Tarzan on an off day. I donned a black one with a net midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning, and I tried on a pink one whose legs were so high cut I would have needed to wax my eyebrows to wear it!
Finally - success. I found the one that fit. A two piece with a short style bottom and halter neck top. It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge friendly.
I bought it. When I got home I read the label: "Material may become transparent in water." I am determined to wear it. I just have to learn how to do the breaststroke on dry land.
________________________________________
Blessings,
Shakura Cathryn
"If you can't laugh at yourself, you may be missing the colossal joke of the century." ~Dame Edna
"Blessed are they who can laugh at themselves for they shall never cease to be amused." ~Author Unknown
