A friend sent me this e-mail today and it made me giggle-not that I was a child in the 60's just a little bit before my time-not by much but a little but it still made me laugh because every year about this time I start seeing swim suits coming out in stores and I dread the whole going to buy a swim suit thing!
Now before I was pregnant 6 times, before I had stretch marks that look like a road map across both my stomach and thighs and before the varicose veins came out on my legs looking like one of my kids took over with a sharpie marker-I didn't mind it so much. I was always smaller on top so I never quite fit into one the way I would have liked. Since I am tall I always had to get one a size larger to fit the length (before they started making them for a longer torso people) and so it was always a little too large for my upper body-but it was either too large there or riding up in other areas which are not fun to look at or feel (I know you have all seen it or been there yourself) so I went for the larger top, but now a Mom of 4, I hate swim suit shopping!
I don't like myself in clothes most of the time let alone looking like I am wearing my underwear around in front of people. I keep saying I am going to design a suit for people like me-more bigger bottoms and smaller tops the come together and don't show your belly button-cause I don't want that either! Oh well, if you struggle with this or not-this
e-mail made me laugh so I thought I would share it.
Happy laughing-it is Friday and Spring Break started for us about 30 minutes ago. Yeah we all are looking forward to this next week-especially me not waking kids at 6:40 am and no packing lunches! I like a good break every now and then.
The Bathing Suit
When I was a child in the 1960's 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 who 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 florescent 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 give the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as 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 seventh rib.
The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is 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 fit 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 play dough 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 which 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 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 them.
Finally, I found a suit that fit...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 home, I found a label which 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!
You'd better be laughing or rolling on the floor by this time. Life isn't about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.