I had to shop for a new swimsuit this week. I finally decided to take the plunge (pun completely intended) upon discovering my current swimsuit had worn threadbare across my entire butt. Of course, I didn't notice until AFTER I had been swimming in public with my impressionable little nephews.
The last time I went swimsuit shopping, I was headed to Hawaii. The time before that it was out of necessity—I had allowed my suit to wear so thin, it would have been inappropriate even by European beach standards.
What made this suit-buying experience different is that I am in forties now. That's right. I bought a swimsuit for the first time as a forty-one-year-old.
I waited until after my period (sorry to get graphic, guys; but ladies, you know what I mean) and hit the store.
The suit bottoms had all sorts of cutesy names to indicate fit—I blame Millennials—most of which I had to Google. One could choose from cheeky, hipster, extra cheeky, ruffle cheeky, shortie, string, skirt, high waist, etc.
I was overwhelmed with options, and none of the tops and bottoms were matched up on the sales racks. I spent an hour grabbing every size and style I could find.
There was a line to the fitting rooms. It was Father's Day, and I glared at all of the people in line ahead of me, judging them for not being at home celebrating with their dads.
Every time a door creaked open, we all looked up expectantly from our phones.
When I was next in line, a blonde woman exited one of the rooms and announced, "I'm not done. I just have to grab more stuff."
"That's fine," I thought. "You just made it into my blog, ha ha ha!" (I may have been a little hungry. Hence, the evil laugh in my head.)
When I arrived at a dressing room, I took a really long time, partly out of spite for all of the other people who made me wait and partly out of the amount suits I had brought in with me to try on.
Cheeky is awful, by the way. I said "no" to cheeky. Ruffle cheeky sounds cute, but it's the devil.
Also, the stores have signs posted everywhere about trying on swimwear with underwear, but let's be honest. You can't really tell how those suits fit until they are against your naked body. I did my best determining how the suit would fit with my panties and bra bulging out the sides.
When I came out of the fitting room, the twelve-year-old working the counter glanced in surprise at the humongous pile of suits in my hands and said, "Just hang those over there," with an air that indicated she didn't want to deal with my middle-aged selections yet.
I outlasted the crowd waiting for the dressing rooms. The shopping trip took me two hours.
But I did make a decision . . .
It might be kind of old womanish, but it's strapless, so . . .
The cashier rang up my purchase and nodded at me with sympathy, as though she knew my plight.
"Did you get something cute?" my husband, Dan, asked when I returned home.
"That sucked!" was my response.
I found Dan standing at the dresser drawer, examining his own swimming trunks.
"I think the elastic on these shorts is going out," he observed.
"You should get a new pair, preferably before these fall off in the pool," I said. "I'm sure buying a new suit won't be a traumatic experience for you" (like it was for me).
#thestruggleisreal
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