Tamara reminded me about this. Apologies if its been on chat before.
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 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-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 costumes was developed, I
believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give 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 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 seventh rib. 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 fit all right, but unfortunately, it only fit 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 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 day. 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 fit...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. When I got home, I read the label, which said,
"Material may become transparent in water." I'm determined to wear it
anyway...I'll just have to learn to do the breaststroke in the sand. And,
summer is sooooo close!!!
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