Nothing really strikes fear like the thought of going shopping for swimmers. I haven't bothered for years as the last time I did it was so traumatic I haven't been able to face the thought of it again. The change rooms had swinging doors like saloon doors that ended at my knees and showed my head. If I bent over to put the pants on my arse would've knocked the doors flying open. I had Lizzie gaurding them all the time yelling at her "don't you come in". It was a waste of time anyway as one glance in the mirror was enough to convince me that pale pink was definitely not my colour and when the hell did all that cellulite appear.
Anyway in my email clean out I found this one from my sister, sent ages ago but kept as a reminder that it's not just me.
This one came from a lady in England – (It is a true
story written by a lady to her friend after a swimsuit
"I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of
torture and humiliation known as buying a bathing suite. 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-milldepartment 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 managed
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
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
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 the label that said,
"Material will become
transparent in water."