So, it turns out I have more to say about swimwear.
Yes, I thought I had basically said all there is to say two years ago with my post on mothering in a swimsuit. But then, I got an email from my friend Victoria S. Secret, purveyor of most things Iâ€™d never wear on account of I donâ€™t need apparel to remind me that Iâ€™m no longer twenty-one. Normally, this would pose little temptation. At the moment, however, I was deep in the final decision-making about which version of A Midsummer Nightâ€™s Dream (a graphic novel version or a No Fear Shakespeare version) to use for a new class Iâ€™m teaching this fall. So when Victoria let out her little secret about free shipping and clearance prices on Things Iâ€™d Never Wear, I was game for a distraction.
Since itâ€™s summer and all, I naturally clicked on swimsuits first.
And so it began.
Girlfriends and others, this proved an educational experience. I began scrolling down the page to look for suits with more than one square inch of fabric to them. Mostly what I found, however, were suits that would look great if you hadnâ€™t birthed thrice and if you didnâ€™t consider chocolate a far dearer friend than plastic surgery (like one woman I know).
Of course, itâ€™s mainly about getting bang for my buck. Why dine at the pricey French restaurant offering beautifully presented one-ounce meals when you can get a much larger volume of poorly presented food substitute for the same price at the all-you-can-eat buffet, you know?
Yes, it does occur to me that this life philosophy might be why I need more fabric on my swimsuits in the first place.
And then, I noticed something. The models had all contorted themselves into these poses that are almost unfathomable, really. I mean, they kind of looked great, but they also looked weird. Seriously, look at some of them sometime, and then, assuming you are a female, do what I did next: picture attempting the same poses the next time youâ€™re at the beach with your family.
I swear LCB and the small people would think I was convulsing.
I can just see it now. My younger son would shove a piece of driftwood in my mouth and tell me not to swallow my own tongue like he saw someone do on TV once. (â€œYouâ€™d be surprised at how much you can learn from watching TV,â€ he once informed me, utterly straight-faced.) It being the South and all here too, thereâ€™d probably be four score and seven people on the beach all surrounding me, offering to help while swapping recipes and stories of â€œthat time Betty did something just like this, bless her now-ostracized little heart.â€
Itâ€™d be awesomeness.
Then, I started looking more closely at some of the those two pieces and I started wondering, because apparently Iâ€™d just been struck stupid, if maybe there was actually more fabric on the bottoms than it appeared in the pictures because of the way the models were posing all contorted-like, which I had already established I would never do. I reasoned, â€œDonâ€™t contortions typically bunch up clothing into a fraction of its regular size?â€
This is how my brain thinks when itâ€™s not.
I really donâ€™t know why some days I exhibit such bad judgment. Whoâ€™s ever bought a suit like that and then, after receiving it in the mail and trying it on, says, â€œIt looks great, just like in the pictures, but bigger and more flattering for the average womanâ€? Iâ€™ll tell you whoâ€™s ever said that. Like, in the entire history of humankind, youâ€™d find maybe one half of one person whoâ€™s ever said that.
The whole thing is enough to drive me to chocolate, as in enough chocolate to add that additional half-person to the person who, trust me, is already quite whole.