Last week during a sendoff of a blubbering employee transferring to an office nearer her home, the gal sitting next to me observed and said, “I look dreadful when I cry.” Then another joined in. “I look horrible when I’m wet.” “I look ghastly,” I added, “when I’m naked.” Truth was I looked almost as bad in a swimsuit. At least the one I owned — stretched out seat, faded colors.
I tried on the smaller sized one stuffed on the shelf in my closet. It’s a whole lot newer, but meant for a body a whole lot thinner. I came out of the room, bulging in all the wrong places, and asked my husband, “Do I look fat?”
His dumb answers used to be free, but ever since we visited the Charles Schultz Museum, he’s got this idea in his head from Lucy that he can charge for his advice. “Maybe if you bought a wrap to go around your waist no one would notice.” What kind of answer is that? Maybe if I got a bag to put over my head I wouldn’t care what my body looked like. Oh, yeah, obviously last winter it appears I hadn’t cared.
There was no other choice than to go to my least favorite place — the mall. Mirrors everywhere. Even on the escalator. By the time I reached the third level, I was so discouraged I was ready to skip the agony and jog — well, waddle over — to Baskin Robbins, and buy one scoop for each digit in my dress size.
There’s no shopping worse than bathing suit shopping. If I buy size twelve pants, since I have two legs, I divide the number in half and tell everyone I bought a pair of sixes. You can’t do that with swimsuits.
I walked past the thousands of bikinis, never allowing my eyes to glance at them. I didn’t want to give anyone the idea that I thought I could actually fit into one. I passed the two-piece tankinis. The tops are never long enough to stay tucked in. I have to paint the roll of skin hanging under the tank top in matching waterproof paint.
The saleswoman looked at me and escorted me over to the Miracle Suit section. There was a pretty magenta one, guaranteed to make me look ten pounds lighter. I carried the suit into the dressing room, stripped with my eyes closed and pulled it on. It squeezed me so tight that both my buns and my boobs were nonexistent — completely flattened. That might not sound entirely bad, except that my neck had bulged out over a now padded collarbone. I re-dressed, again eyes closed.
I wandered over to the one-piece suits. There were only three “old style” without the French cut to choose from. Black, navy blue, and bright blue with diagonal lines. One had a skirt. I’ve heard that diagonal strips make you look smaller. I wasn’t sure about the iridescent gold threads.
I chose the navy blue one. The suit was trimmed with a bright yellow bias. I’m surprised. I looked so good, people might mistake me for an Olympian swimmer. Not, but as good as it’s gonna get without a Miracle.
Related posts:Print This Post