Since my own
children are on the local junior swim team, I succumbed to pressure and decided today might
be time for me to buy a swimsuit for myself.
Have you
ever tried to buy a swimsuit at the end of June? No?
Well, let me tell you: there is
virtually nothing left. The swimsuit racks have
been picked clean by the Planners. The
Planners purchased their new swimsuits the moment the factories shipped them to
the stores, way back in February.
When it was
still snowing.
The Planners
got all the good suits, so I’m stuck looking through metal racks with leftover
suits that no one wanted. There is a
name for this type of leftover suit, and the name is: Tankini.
A tankini,
for the uninitiated, is a cross between a regular one-piece swimsuit and a
bikini. It looks like a one-piece, but
it is actually a separate top and bottom.
The only (and I do mean only) advantage I can imagine for a suit like
this is that it is easier to go to the bathroom.
The
designers apparently gave up on trying to figure out sizes for us non-Hollywood
types: “You women are too small on top
and fat on the bottom, or busty on the top and huge on the bottom, or totally
flat-chested but with a big tummy … I’m not sure if I even have enough fabric. Ugh, forget it.”
The tankinis
mock me. They look (at first glance)
like alluring one-pieces hanging on the rack.
I see a few lovely batik prints and cheery floral patterns. Polka dots and nautical stripes call my
name. Matisse-inspired color palettes beckon.
Upon closer
inspection, I realize the bottom parts of these seductive suits are
missing. When I tried one on (I caved
when the ultra-helpful saleslady kept telling me how purple—the color of a
bruise—was really my color) the tankini top did not go all the way down to meet
the separate tankini bottom. Because I am long-waisted, it hit me
exactly at my least flattering area: the
tumucular region.
Now, my
tummy likes to be hidden under the best of circumstances. My tummy has not been on its own in broad daylight
since 1998 and I think I must’ve been drunk that time. To ask my middle-aged tummy to make a guest
appearance at the local outdoor pool under bright sunlight was nothing short of torture. In this tankini suit, I could clearly see an unappealing
strip of tummy flesh poking out, neon white like an albino ghost, and flabby as
well. Mirrors don’t lie.
WHY, OH WHY,
DESIGNERS, WOULD YOU WANT TO ACCENTUATE MY TUMMY?
I removed the
offending tankini and tried on 100 more swimsuits (tankinis or the random
leftover one-piece) in the futile hope that one might work. Please, please, God, let one of these
swimsuits work! I need one, just one
suit, to work! Please work. Nothing worked. Nothing even showed up for the job interview. Nothing even applied for an unpaid
internship. Finally, I resigned
myself to my fate of wearing shorts and a t-shirt to the pool for the next
three months. I could tell everyone that
I converted to being Amish.
I got home
and noticed the UPS guy had left us a package.
I love packages! I love UPS! I glanced at the sender information and saw
that it was Eddie Bauer. This must be
something The Husband ordered because he is very outdoorsy.
“Whadya
order, Sweetie?” I asked him.
“Oh, just a
couple of swimsuits for the pool. I
think I will put one on and take the kids to the pool right now.”
I stared in
shock and disbelief when he got the scissors out and cut all the tags off.
“What are
you doing!?” I cried, “You can’t cut those tags off yet, you haven’t even tried
them on! What if they don’t fit? You ordered them online, from just looking at a picture! You never even held them up! Aren’t you worried they won’t fit?”
He shrugged
his shoulders. “Of course the swimsuits
will fit. I ordered my size. They always fit.”
What was
this cruel game he was playing with me? Of course the swimsuits will fit? Who says that? How does he know?
He went in
the other room, put on one of the swimsuit, and came back out.
“MOV, what
do you think?” He modeled the suit.
I had to
admit, it fit. And it looked great.
“I guess it
fits you fine,” I said, pouting just a little bit. “How much was it?”
“It was on
sale. I paid $16 for each. Why?
What do women’s swimsuits cost?”
Not that
much when you’re Amish.
MOV
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