Bathing Suit Shopping is a Bummer

Bathing suit shopping is a summer ritual I can live without. I really don’t need to hear the evil stepmother’s cackle when I look into a dressing room mirror. The lighting is painful enough, and the whole experience shatters my self esteem. Few women leave the dressing room with fretting. I remember those days when I took my lean body for granted. The days when my thighs weren’t Siamese twins and my belly was taut, despite living on a diet of fries smothered in chili cheese and margaritas.

It’s not just the shifting of this and that after having two kids that bothers me. I’m proud of my body carrying two healthy babies and delivering them with nary a grunt (true story…I’d get stoned to death by my readers if I confessed how ridiculously easy child birth was for me). Just because I’m proud of my body doing its thang doesn’t mean I have to be happy about the byproduct. Besides, this is not a tale of feminine pride and loving my curves, wrinkles, and bum. I’m not here to embrace my warts and celebrate my weaknesses. If you’re here for a bodacious pep rally, you’re at the wrong blog.

I’m just here to bitch about bathing suit shopping.

Seriously, it sucks. I wasted a Tuesday night stomping on my self esteem. The atrocious dressing room lighting. The stray brown hairs left on the naugahyde stool (What, other people’s hair doesn’t creep you out?!). The broken hangers littering the floor and the wonkily hung suits and cover ups taking up valuable hook space. Add in the comments from the peanut gallery around you in stalls one and three and you’re in for a real treat of a shopping experience. Oh, the wailing toddler who was up way past his bed time didn’t help matters. I wanted to wail right along with him. There is nothing fun about bathing suit shopping.

The selection of suits fell into four categories – 1) granny style, 2) second mortgage worthy expensive, 3) itsy bitsy teeny weeny, and 4) suitable but not cute. I’m almost 43 years old so I nixed all the suits that the teenage girls gravitated towards. Ditto for the swim dresses. I mean honestly, a swim dress?! You’ve got to be kidding me. That thing is just going to cling to you in unforgiving places when it’s wet. We might as well go back to bloomers and swim caps. I’m all for coverage, mind you. I don’t want my cheeks flapping about or errant boob rolls popping over the unwired cups. And I’m a tish mad about proper sun protection. All I ask for is a cute bathing suit that has ample coverage and will withstand Deal’s deathgrip when I hold him in the pool. I’ve had my share of wardrobe malfunctions, and believe me, no one was pleased. Gravity continues to take its toll so I can’t imagine the verdict will change as time goes on.

A part of me does wish for my 30 year old figure. I can’t lie. My thighs didn’t touch. I was perky in form, not just temperament. My abs were flawless, and my posture was perfect. But vanity doesn’t drive me, and I’m not hastily jotting down plastic surgeon numbers. I’m also not obsessing about yoga class and pilates and calorie counting. I wouldn’t trade a thing, however, I do covet a flattering bathing suit that meets my form and function needs. If nothing else, I want a dressing room that doesn’t make me look like a sallow ball of waxy mush.

And if you happen to see me on the beach or poolside this summer, I’m on a mission to take sexy back one long sleeved rash guard at a time. Sun protection, yo!