Yes, ladies (and the gentlemen readers also), it's swimsuit season in southern California.
Every year, I visit several department stores and mass merchandisers looking for "the suit". And each time, I tearfully retreat to my vehicle at the far end of the parking lot, disgusted with myself and empty handed save the Ding Dong I may or may not be shoving in my face.
(Hey, don't judge! I'm drinking a Diet Coke, they cancel themselves out. It's like not eating anything. I admit, I do good for a while, then I completely fall off the diet wagon. I like food. But it's a love-hate relationship, because it doesn't like me back.)
I refuse to even look at any of the "plus size suits" (ie: yards and yards of fabric to cover miles and miles of me). To purchase one of these monstrosities is to concede defeat -- I'd rather swim naked (which I have done, late at night, by myself, in the dark, with no witnesses.)
Why do I do this to myself? Perhaps I truly am a sucker for punishment. Well, here we go again:
This morning, I arrived at my friendly neighborhood Walmart with my poor, long-suffering husband in tow. Someone needs to talk to the Pope about him. He's obviously up for sainthood having to put up with my whining year-after-horrific year.
Anyhow, we go in and he says to me "So, you going to look at bathing suits?"
And I'm like, "Yeah, I guess so."
He gives me a pitiful look, because he already knows the drill, and says "Okay, I'll be in the (insert manly section of the store here) if you need me."
And then he sprints away. I mean he disappears, as in "now you see him, now you don't."
Completely deflated, I head for the racks of brightly-colored polyester scraps of fabric with strings and clasps. Some of these winners actually contain metal cages for keeping everything that mother nature gave to you uplifted and perky, whist attempting the impossible of sucking in two pregnancies. They are tantamount to sadistic devices of torture you'd likely find in a dungeon somewhere. Never mind being able to actually swim in these contraptions, much less walk, sit, (lay down, roll over, play dead).
I bypass all of those and head for something that might actually be wearable, knowing I'll just get it in the dressing room and have to put it back on the hanger, not being able to actually pull the micro bottoms up past my knees, while the top with the death-lacing leaves very little to the imagination and my cup runneth over.
I make a couple of selections in something that might almost be my size and head for the dressing room, not feeling very optimistic.
HOLY CRAP!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT. I CAN ACTUALLY GET THE BOTTOMS ON PAST MY THIGHS, ALL THE WAY TO MY ... um yes, well.
I settle on a pair of swim shorts and a minimizing bandeau top that I'll likely pair with a tank top:
Look out summer, here I come!
