Bathing Suit

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 costume for a woman
with a mature figure was designed
for a woman with a mature figure--
boned, trussed, and reinforced, not 
so much much sewn, as engineered.



They were built to hold back and uplift; 
and they did a darn 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
that 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
suits was developed, I believe, by
NASA to launch small rockets from a 
slingshot, which gives you 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 suit, 
but as I twanged the shoulder strap
into place, I gasped in horror--my
busom had disappeared.  Eventually,
I found one busom 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 busom spread across
the chest like a speed bump.  
I realigned my speed bump and lurched
toward the mirror to take a full view 
assessment.



The bathing suit fitted me all right, 
but unfortunately, it only fitted those
bits of me willing to stay inside it.
The rest of me oozed out
rebelliously from the top, bottom, 
and sides.  I looked like a lump
of playdough wearing undersized
cling wrap.



As I tried to work out where all 
those extra bits had come from,
the pre-pubescent salesgirl
popped her head through the curtains,
"Oh, there you are!" she said.  I 
asked her what else she had to
show me.



I tried on a cream colored crinkled 
one that made me look like a lump of
masking tape, and a floral two-piece
which gave the appearance of an over-
sized napkin in a napkin ring.



I struggled into a pair of leopard 
skin bathers with a ragged frill
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 it.



Finally I found a suit 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 anyways.



I just have to learn to breastroke
in the sand!