We’re taking the kids on a mini-vacation to an indoor water park later this month, where we will either have an absolute blast bonding together on water slides or catch waterborne Hepatitis. I started to pack a few things we’ll need on our trip and one look at my current stretched-out, chlorine-faded swimsuit had me panicking. Maybe there’s a way out of this, I wondered. I can probably fake an illness or give myself nervous diarrhea, but the kids will be disappointed and frankly, we’ve done next to nothing for fun this year. Yep; I have to go. Perhaps an improvised bathing costume is called for, so I checked the hotel website, but unfortunately they’ve determined that black tights and a sweatshirt are not appropriate swimwear, so I had to get myself a bathing suit.
That was fun.
That was sarcasm.
I told my sister my troubles and it turns out she has a suit she offered to lend me, which is awesome because I’ve seen the suit in question and I’m pretty sure it’s made of recycled industrial rubber belting.
But a quick check says it won’t fit, so I went to the mall. I was optimistic and self-assured at first, but everything I tried on made me look like half-cooked bread dough squeezed into a size 2 men’s winter galosh. The fact that the crotch protector in one suit was a Snickers wrapper should have tipped me off that something was amiss, but my eyes were blurry from the movie set lighting they insist on using in change rooms. I think they should start sewing tags with the Mental Health Crisis Hotline number in any suit bigger than a size 12, and provide telephones in each changing cubicle.
I couldn’t find anything at “Self-Esteem Killers R-Us” that didn’t make me want to attempt home liposuction with my central vac and the flavour injector syringe that came with our turkey deep fryer. (Yes; we have a turkey deep fryer and I don’t look good in a bathing suit. Do not think the irony of this is lost on me, friends.)
So on I went to the specialty suit shop. I walked in, took a deep breath, and spilled my guts to the first clerk I saw. I let it all out – how my stomach is too big and flabby, my butt is non-existent, my chest large and mushy, my shoulders tiny, and my arms like soft fresh logs of bologna. I told her my deepest body-image secrets and how it all probably stems back to my childhood and that time I had to go to school in too-small pants because my dad didn’t know how to use our washing machine. That led to some crying about how I am estranged from my parents, and on from there into “monthly cycle” territory. I was sobbing into a second tissue when this poor overburdened woman finally put her hand on my shoulder, looked at me with sympathy and soft eyes, and said, “I don’t work here.”
You know, they say you shouldn’t eat your feelings. But it’s hard not to, especially when having to shop for a bathing suit makes them taste like cinnamon buns.
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Once upon a time I went to go shop for a bathing suit, and the 12 year old girl on duty at the podium where they hand out numbers that correspond to the number of your articles said, “Good luck!” Of all the things you can possibly say to a woman who isn’t a size 6 or below, I think this is probably the farthest from the best option she could have picked. Karma will remember her in 10 years, I’m sure.
I have a swimsuit. I even wear it to swim. I have even worn it in public.
I acquired this suit by walking boldly into my then local shop-for-people-who-look-like-me-despite-the-models-they-use-to-sell-to-people-who-look-like-me national brand store and declaring, “I am here to buy a bathing suit and I *will* be buying one because I leave for the ocean in the morning and the ocean needs me to wear a bathing suit.” The extremely kind and very helpful associate opened her eyes wide and said, “I get it! Let’s go!” and proceeded to whip me though three racks of suits explaining what she thought would work or look good and what she felt would fail. I would then reply with what I liked, generally speaking and what I hoped might work.
There is nothing more beautiful in this world than two people who are communicating needs and hopes with the same common goal in mind. Women, at that! Helping each other. It was awesome.
I got what I needed. I still have it. I hope next year I can update it.
Incidentally, I now have an inexplicable craving for cinnamon buns.
It’s the darnedest thing.
Oh gosh! I just went through this. I found a suit thatvI really liked and the sales clerk whom was overly pushy said “well ACTUALLY that doesnt look that bad”. Some people. Seriiusly, wear what you feel comfortable in and who care what others think.