I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture
and humiliation known as buying a bathing suit. When I was
a child, the bathing suit for the woman with a mature figure
was designed for a woman with a mature figure. Boned,
trussed, and reinforced, those swim suits were not so much
sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift
and they did a darn good job.
Today, stretch-fabric bathing suits are designed for the
prepubescent girl with a figure chipped out of marble. The
woman with a mature figure has little choice. She can either
front up at the maternity wear department and try on a
floral costume with a skirt and come away looking like a
hippopotamus that has escaped from Fantasia - or she can
wander around any run-of-the-mill bathing costume
departments and try to make a sensible choice from what
amounts to a designer range of fluoro rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around. I made my
choice and disappeared in to the small chamber of horrors
known as the fitting room.
The first thing I noticed about the bathing suit was the
extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The
lycra that goes into bathing suits was developed, I believe,
by NASA to launch small rockets by a sling shot. And it
comes with the bonus that as long as you can lever your
body into a lycra suit, you can protect your vital organs
from shark attack; the reason being that any shark foolish
enough to take a swipe at your passing midriff would
immediately suffer from jaw whiplash injury.
I fought my way into the first suit but as I twanged the last
shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror. My bosom had
disappeared. I found one cowering under my left armpit. It
took a little longer to find the other - flattened beside my
7th rib. The problem is" today's suits don't have 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 turned to the mirror to make a full-view
assessment. The suit fit all right. Unfortunately it only fit
those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me
oozed out of the top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump
of playdough wearing an undersized piece of cling wrap. As I
tried to work out where all these extra bits of me had come
from, the sales girl poked her head around the curtain. "Oh,
there y'all are," she gasped.
"Yes, they are ALL me," I replied, looking at the extra bits.
"What else have you got?"
I tried on a crinkled cream one which made me look like
designer tape. I tried on a floral two-piece which made me
look like an oversized napkin in a napkin ring. I struggled into
one of leopard skin with a ragged frill and ended up looking
like Tarzan on an off day. I donned a black one with a net
midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning, and I tried on a
pink one whose legs were so high cut I would have needed
to wax my eyebrows to wear it!
Finally - success. I found the one that fit. A two piece with
a short style bottom and halter neck top. It was cheap,
comfortable, and bulge friendly.
I bought it. When I got home I read the label: "Material may
become transparent in water." I am determined to wear it. I
just have to learn how to do the breaststroke on dry land.
SO THERE !
))
