Today I went swimsuit shopping.  A heinous expedition; not for the sober or weak of heart.  Dressing room mirrors have the ability to suck out color, accentuate fat, and magnify faults with advanced precision.  I’ve always thought that if dressing rooms had the dim lighting of my guest bathroom and a cocktail bar there would be no recession.  Usually when I’m shopping for swim suits it is at least at the start of summer and I can be appeased with a well placed ruffle, some cute adornments, and the promise of the warm relaxed season ahead.  Today I was shopping for an actual performance swimsuit at the start of fall… and without booze.  Shoot me.  Speedo suits don’t enhance, lift, or separate the ta-tas.  They smoosh them back to whence they came.  They are slimline for speed.  Translation: No cute ruffles, wraps, skirts, bows, or buckles to hide fat.  Oh, and did I mention that the racer back on a non-racers body is like a thong on a sow?  Not pretty.  It’s a back fat nightmare.  To top it off the whole thing fits so tight that a thick layer of lard must be applied to the skin to be able to slide it on.

This experience would have been unbearably mortifying had I not been so enthralled with the older woman helping fit me.  She was quite blunt, and slightly profane, about which suits were totally unacceptable.  She was even one to roll up her sleeves and get hands on with the situation.  She was a master at flesh oragami and cramming body parts into tight spaces.  I just kept thinking that one day I’d like to get paid to cuss and fuss at customers as well as squeal with horror when they try to unleash their mutant, lycra covered bodies on the world.  I can only imagine that it is a similar experience being on a reality show where paid professionals berate your every fashion mishap and in the end you thank them.  I must give her props, she found the one and only suit in the whole danged store that fit me well enough to be public pool acceptable. 

One outlandishly expensive, ugly, swim suit later and I’m ready to do some serious laps.  If only I were a serious swimmer.  I like to refer to myself as a non-drowner; a water survivor.  When I swim I look much like a cat taking a bath.   But now I will be a cat in a super cool swim suit…. with spliced back fat.  Go me!


One thought on “Just keep swimming…

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