Trying on the Bathing Suit
It's getting to be that time again, so I thought I would spread some cheer!
In days gone by, the bathing suit for the over 40 crowd was boned, trussed and
reinforced, not so much sewn, as engineered to fit. They were built to hold back
in the right places and give some 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
assorted designer's florescent rubber bands being sold as bathing suits.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, and in desperation, picked out one
and entered the fitting room (which is known to most of us "older girls" as a
chamber of horrors).
The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch
material. The Lycra in that bathing costume must have been developed by NASA to
launch small rockets from a slingshot. I fought my way into it, 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 rebelliously oozed
out 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, "that is a lovely suit." I curtly asked what other suits she
had to show me.
I tried on a cream-crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape.
I tried on a floral two-piece which gave the appearance of an oversized napkin
in a serving ring. I struggled into a 2-piece leopard skin that covered my
stomach with ragged frills and I looked 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 one-piece 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 . . . ... 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. I figured at least I had something I could wear
and that the hours of search had been productive.
Life is not fair -- 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 happen to be there too ... I'll be the person in cut off jeans and a
t-shirt
It's getting to be that time again, so I thought I would spread some cheer!
In days gone by, the bathing suit for the over 40 crowd was boned, trussed and
reinforced, not so much sewn, as engineered to fit. They were built to hold back
in the right places and give some 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
assorted designer's florescent rubber bands being sold as bathing suits.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, and in desperation, picked out one
and entered the fitting room (which is known to most of us "older girls" as a
chamber of horrors).
The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch
material. The Lycra in that bathing costume must have been developed by NASA to
launch small rockets from a slingshot. I fought my way into it, 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 rebelliously oozed
out 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, "that is a lovely suit." I curtly asked what other suits she
had to show me.
I tried on a cream-crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape.
I tried on a floral two-piece which gave the appearance of an oversized napkin
in a serving ring. I struggled into a 2-piece leopard skin that covered my
stomach with ragged frills and I looked 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 one-piece 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 . . . ... 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. I figured at least I had something I could wear
and that the hours of search had been productive.
Life is not fair -- 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 happen to be there too ... I'll be the person in cut off jeans and a
t-shirt
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