I have saved this piece since my very first computer way back in 1985 or thereabouts. I think this is one of the most hilarious pieces I have ever read... Perhaps because I can so identify with this mature woman.
From Australia...
The Bathing Suit
I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and humiliation known as buying a bathing costume. When I was a child in the 1950's, the bathing costume for a woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman with a mature figure - boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a bloody good job.
Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped from marble. The mature woman has a choice - she can either front up at the maternity department and try on a floral costume 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 fluorescent 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. The reason for this is
that a shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.
I fought my way into the bathing costume, but as I twanged the shoulder strap into place I gasped in horror - my bosom had disappeared. Eventually I found one bosom cowering under my left armpit. It took awhile 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 bosom spread across her chest like a speed hump.
I re-aligned my speed hump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full-view assessment. The bathing costume fitted all right, but unfortunately it only fitted 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 undersize cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the prepubescent salesgirl popped her head through the curtains, "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 oversize napkin in a serviette ring. I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with a ragged frill and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane on a bad day.
I tried 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 costume that fit...a two-piece affair with shorts-style bottoms and a halter top. It was cheap, comfortable and bulge-friendly, so I bought it.
When I got home, I read the label which said "Material may become transparent in water", but I'm determined to wear it anyway. I just have to learn to breaststroke in the sand.
Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped from marble. The mature woman has a choice - she can either front up at the maternity department and try on a floral costume 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 fluorescent 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. The reason for this is
that a shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.
I fought my way into the bathing costume, but as I twanged the shoulder strap into place I gasped in horror - my bosom had disappeared. Eventually I found one bosom cowering under my left armpit. It took awhile 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 bosom spread across her chest like a speed hump.
I re-aligned my speed hump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full-view assessment. The bathing costume fitted all right, but unfortunately it only fitted 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 undersize cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the prepubescent salesgirl popped her head through the curtains, "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 oversize napkin in a serviette ring. I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with a ragged frill and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane on a bad day.
I tried 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 costume that fit...a two-piece affair with shorts-style bottoms and a halter top. It was cheap, comfortable and bulge-friendly, so I bought it.
When I got home, I read the label which said "Material may become transparent in water", but I'm determined to wear it anyway. I just have to learn to breaststroke in the sand.
swimsuit swimsuit trauma summer blues
8 comments:
What a hoot!
When I buy a swimsuit, I just pick the one with the most “XXXX’s” on the size tag.
That is funny...I'm glad I'm not quite there yet, but even I am self-conscious in the offerings now advertised as swim wear.
In TX, I got used to seeing them on the beach. You kind of get desensitized after awhile. But then you go to Walmart...and it does not seem so appropriate to see these girls running around in their swimming attire and flip flops.
I think it is not so apropriate to see these skimply clad bodies anywhere! What happened to modesty?
Enjoyed this immensely.
Hey, Happy Belated Birtday!
I am amazed that we share the same birthday (although I am a wee bit older than you)! We do have a lot in common!
May this year bring you much joy and happiness and love.
Thank you, Val! I appreciate that. I found it amazing, too, that we shared the same B-day :)
David, we don't think of them as XXs... these are the ELASTIC's give rate.
Oh, I laughed all the way through this post. I think everyone has nightmares when it comes to choosing a bathing suit. lol
Boy Gina you've been bussy or I've been neglecting you I had to go way down your blog to get caught up on my reading. Found some wonderful reading and made some comments to. Thanks I enjoyed them all.
:) It's been a busy week! Fer shore.
Gina, thanks for a wonderful laugh today! For me, it is a horrifying experience to go shopping for a swimsuit. UGH!
The picture is worth a 1000 words!
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