Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Today I am grateful for swim suits.    But beware. There is a limit to what control-front, belly-busting-spandex can do.  FYI - It has to go somewhere.  Do the math.  Or is it physics?

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I don’t try them on in the store.  Not anymore.  Not since I nearly knocked out a wall trying to wiggle into a control-front suit that must have been designed to control front, side, back, top, bottom and my husband.  Did you ever see an old movie where a pesky bee got in and the mule was trying to kick himself out of the stall. Yup.  That was me.


Before I go any further, know that it was in my “size”.   I wasn’t trying to pour into a size 12 that wouldn’t even fit one leg!  This was a big-lady-belly-buster!  I got that sucker up to my knees and had to stop.  Breathe.  Breathe.  Hoisting it over the thighs is an aerobic activity in itself.  Okay, I’m ready.  I dig my hands between my knees and start to yank.  You cannot have even a minor case of carpal tunnel to do this.  Inch by inch.  Tug, snap.  Tug, snap.  Tug, snap.  I’d pull it up a little further and it would twang at me like an angry rubber band.  Was I being tazered? 


I got it to the waist.  Had to rest again.  I was grunting and groaning so much a crowd was forming outside the dressing room. I’m sure they thought I had Hugh Jackman in there doing the nasty. . .not quite the mile-high club. . .but a Penney’s-Dressing-Room version.  Okay, wishful thinking on my part.  I digress.  Okay.  I’m rested.  Whew!  I pulled the spandex inner-tube over the “girls” and slipped into the straps.


My waist was thin alright.  I felt like Scarlett O’Hara when Mammy was yanking on the corset strings, “Missy Scarlett, you dun had a baby.  You ain’t never gonna have a nineteen-and-a-half-inch waist again!”  I had two babies.  I did.  Honest.  A million years ago.  Oh shut up!  Not quite Scarlett size, okay, but my waist was smaller. . .relatively speaking.  A tourniquet will do that, too.  All I needed was the big stick from the boy scout manual to twist it tighter. I took a short, shallow breath.  More wasn’t possible.  I was panting like a nine-monther in a Lamaze class.  Hoo!  Hoo!  Hoo!  Ah! Ah!  Finally, I got up the nerve to turn and look in the mirror.


No wonder I couldn’t breathe.  I’m surprised I didn’t suffocate, what with the breasts hiked up to just under my nostrils.  The good news is my double chin was lost in them!  And the bottom? The bottom?  My stomach and butt were so sucked in my legs looked like bloated toddler pop-beads dangling from my trunk.  Purple and blue ones that screamed “uncle”!


I turned.  Big mistake.  Huge!  Wow.  Who knew I had so much back?  Is that a cleavage?  With a cleavage in front and a cleavage in back, knock my head off and  you could have parked a bike on me with no trouble.  I had to get outta this thing before my legs dropped off altogether.


The good thing about gravity is. . .well. . .once you get the ball rolling (so to speak) the rest takes care of itself.  It snapped off of me like tightly-wound window shade with a directional problem.  The discarded monster lay on the floor like a deflated tire.  I stepped out of it, got dressed, wiped the sweat from my brow and stepped out of the dressing room, hanging it on the return rack without blinking.  I held my head high.  As the crowd parted for me to pass. . . I lifted my weary wrist in a queenly wave.  Too much?  Lighten up.  I lived, didn’t I?


Today I’m grateful for swim suits. . .but I’ll never try one on in a store again.  Why can’t we go back to the good old days when we didn’t even attempt to “control” the inevitable?  It is what it is.  Even spandex can only do so much.  Let’s take a vote.  One!  For less control and more actual breathing!  What a concept.