THE DREADED SWIMSUIT PURCHASE
- 12/2/2006 <--Prev : Next-->
THE DREADED SWIM SUIT PURCHASE
"I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and
humiliation known as buying a bathing suit.
When I was a child in the 1950's, the bathing suit 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 good job.
Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the pre-pubescent girl with a
figure carved from a potato chip.
The mature woman has a choice she can either front up at 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 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 any
shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer
whiplash.
I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder
strap in place, I gasped in horror - my bosom had disappeared!
Eventually, I found one bosom 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 bosom spread across her chest like a speed
hump. I realigned my speed hump and lurched toward the mirror to take
a
full view assessment.
The bathing suit 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 undersized cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the
pre-pubescent sales girl 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 oversized
napkin in a serviette ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frill and
came out looking 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 pair with such a high cut leg I thought I
would
have to wax my eyebrows to wear them.
Finally, I found a suit that fitted... a two piece affair with shorts
style bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable,
and bulge-friendly, so I bought it.
My ridiculous search had a successful outcome.
When I got home, I found a label that said, "Material will become
transparent in water.
