Yay! Swimsuit shopping time! said no one ever!

Summer, though officially still a few weeks away on the calendar, is back.  Summer means grilling on endless repeat. Summer means watermelons, peaches, corn on the cob. Summer means driving with the top down, or, for those without jeeps and convertibles, with the windows open. Summer means thick, green grass and bees. Summer means boating or trips to the pool.  Summer means it is time to peel off the layers upon layers we wore to keep warm all winter.  Summer means swimsuit shopping.

Whoa! Wait! What?!?  I don’t wanna buy a swimsuit! Swimsuit shopping produces anxiety like no other!  My left eye starts twitching and my stomach feels like it is one giant ulcer.  I despise swimsuit shopping. 

Swimsuit shopping makes me realize that my actual size and the tag size never match, so I feel like a fatty no matter what.

Swimsuit shopping reminds me that my skin will be exposed, not only to the sun, but to other pairs of eyes besides mine.

Swimsuit shopping emphasizes the fact that I don’t look like a swimsuit model, whose diet probably consists primarily of celery, the only vegetable that burns more calories chewing it than it has. 

Swimsuit shopping convinces me that there is not enough celery in the world.

Swimsuit shopping is the only time I actually think it might not be so bad to join a religious faction that wears robes.

Each year I face the frightening debut of my swimsuit clad body… an event that sometimes requires months of preparation … dieting, shaving, waxing, weight lifting.  Pre-season prep time is about over.  It’s almost game time.  The most beautiful months of the year will be upon us soon….real soon!  Suddenly I’m thinking stealing that Reese’s Peanut butter Egg (or two…or three….) from Tyler’s Easter basket wasn’t the best idea.

So here I am, faced with shopping for a new swimsuit, damning the fashion industry for letting men wear baggy trunks that cover their non-cellulite thighs, while I am supposed to wear French-cut bottoms that ― unlike swimsuits of years ago ― doesn’t just show my leg, but my hip, my fat roll, and my down-yonder lady part that now has to be maintained so it doesn’t look like I’m smuggling Chewbacca.  Why do non-European men get to cover half their legs, while I get the material equivalent of a macramé plant hanger? How is that fair?

I think in my adult life, I have tried every swimsuit trick imaginable that would give the illusion of having a body like Christie Brinkley such as wearing support hose under my suit to keep my knees in place and making my legs tan

Black is slimming

       No large prints

           Vertical or diagonal stripes

                 

Sometimes I think about the Victorian era swimsuits…short-sleeved black dresses worn with bloomers and black stockings. As uncomfortable as that getup would be for swimming, at least I would have no worries about exposing my fat roll or my post-baby stretch marks or the cellulite I’m blaming on my deceased grandmother. Everything would be covered up and left to the imagination. There’s some wisdom in that somewhere.

During pre-game of summer last year, I got the brainstorm to try the Miraclesuit.  I grabbed a black (of course) one piece one off the rack at Macy’s and headed to the dressing room.  I’m going to look at least ten pounds lighter with this little black number…woohoooo!  I huffed and I puffed and I shimmied into the suit. It was hard work stuffing myself into that suit!  When I was done, I squinted at myself in the mirror and what I saw was nothing short of, well, a miracle. I had the torso of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model. For a brief few seconds I imagined myself on a photo shoot after eating my lunch of celery…..laying my model-like body across the hot rocks as they spritzed water on my face to give me that “damp, fresh look”…..I lifted my hand and to wipe some of the spritzed water from my forehead while looking into the camera……

    Whoa! Wait!  I was sweating…

           A drop of sweat ran down that 

                   side of my nose….

                    Back to reality!

I opened my eyes wide and looked into the mirror again.  Holy 12-ply Lycra, Batman! That’s when I realized that what goes in one place must come out someplace else. I had so much fat under my arms that it looked like I was holding a piglet under each one. My stomach rolls were pushed so far down that Chewbacca now had my belly button for a nose! It looked like I had end tables attached to my outer thighs.  No wonder I was sweating!   So much for a miracle!

I swear I've tried every method known for decreasing attention from my body. I've worn shorts

over my swimsuit. I've sat in the sun and sand, sweating to death in a beach cover up. I've wrapped my beach towel around my waist like a sari.  I've even contemplated one of those over-sized T-shirts with an airbrushed picture of a thong-clad centerfold with a tiny waist and breasts the size of cantaloupes ― pouring out of a scant bikini top. Dye my hair a little lighter and people would then mistake me for Pamela Sue Anderson. Who wants that?!?

What I need to find is the thigh-slimmer knee-length pant with firm control underwire at the rear .swimsuit No?  It doesn't really matter.   With today’s anything-goes fashion, I think I can get away with wearing underwear to the beach. I’d probably get fewer looks than if I wore the black Miraclesuit that I tried on last summer!  Maybe I could wear a regular suit and carry a sign saying: “Looks aren't important. I am a good person.”

Yeah, that’s it...  A sign....One of those sandwich board things they use to lure you into pizza places.

I think I’m going to stick to online swimsuit shopping this season.  I’m still looking and I haven’t ordered anything, although the Land’s End halter tankini top looks like it could diminish some of the damage I've done to myself when I stole the peanut butter eggs from Tyler’s basket!   And there is also a swimsuit with a “beach living wide waistband” that might work.  Sighhh....

I've spent years not getting my picture taken….always being the “taker”. And I’m tired of being eliminated from my own scrapbooks, because the fashion industry has humiliated me into deleting myself from my own life. I've spent too many years feeling like I’m “not enough.” I may never be a size 2. And that’s okay. This is who I am right now ― a funny, fun-loving, kind person. I've decided to no longer be bullied by the racks of bikinis paving the way to the black suits with the skirts. Magazines with surgically- and Photoshop-enhanced miniatures of real women will not shame me into the shadows anymore. And you be certain that if I ever do get to a size 2, I still won’t want one a swimsuit with a thong bottom.  String is not a classy garment. It’s something you use to tie up the recycling.

It’s time to get busy and think about the upcoming summer months and finding a way to minimize my figure flaws. My goal is to find a suit that I can be seen in which won’t make me feel bad about myself. If I happen to find one that makes me feel confident and sexy, that’s a total bonus. However, at this point, I’d be content with one that makes me feel not totally unattractive!

I’m going to Google “muumuus.”