Well, it's that time of year again that we all dread. . . swimsuit season. I pulled out my swimsuit that I bought a few years ago only to find that all of the lycra has disappeared and i can actually see through the back of it in spots! Time to go through all of the agony of of trying on and finding a bathing suit that fits and flatters. I think that's an oxymoron!
I found it interesting that I received this email from a dear friend of mine today that I hope will start off your week with a laugh, and get you into the right frame of mind if you too must wander in search of the "perfect suit" for the upcoming summer.
When I was a child in the 1950s, the bathing suit for the mature figure
was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered.
They were built to hold back and uplift, and they did a good job.
Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a
figure carved from a potato chip.
The mature woman has a choice, she can either go up front to the
maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away
looking like a hippopotamus that escaped from Disney's Fantasia,
or she can wander around every run-of-the-mill department store
trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer
range of fluorescent rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice
and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The
first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch
material. The lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe,
by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which gives the
added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one,
you would be protected from shark attacks. Any shark taking a swipe
at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.
I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder
strap in place I gasped in horror, my boobs had disappeared!
Eventually, I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took
a while to find the other. At last I located it flattened beside my
The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The
mature woman is now meant to wear her boobs spread across her
chest like a speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched
toward the mirror to take a full view assessment.
The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fitted those
bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out
rebelliously from top, bottom and sides. I looked like a lump of
Playdoh wearing undersized cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from,
the prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain,
"Oh, there you are," she said, admiring the bathing suit.
I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to
show me. I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like
a lump of masking tape, and a floral two-piece that gave the
appearance of an oversized napkin in a serving ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard-skin bathers with ragged frills
and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets
and having a rough day.
I tried on a black number with a midriff fringe and looked like a
jellyfish in mourning.
I tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought
I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.
Finally, I found a suit that fit. It was a two-piece affair with a
shorts-style bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap,
comfortable, and bulge-friendly, so I bought it.
My ridiculous search had a successful outcome, I figured.
When I got it home...I found a label that read, "Material might
become transparent in water."
So, if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of
water this year and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off jeans
and a T-shirt!
I hope you're laughing with me by this time.... Now if you'll excuse me I think I need a martini. . .
Life isn't about how to survive the storm, but how to dance
in the rain, with or without a stylish bathing suit!