Monday, June 25, 2012


And no, I am not talking about your birthday suit.

I'm talking about the dreaded other b-suit.  A bathing suit.

Seriously.  Is there any woman in this entire world that actually enjoys bathing suit shopping? If you raised your hand, I hate you.  I'm grown, I do what I want.  And I hate you and your perfect bathing suit having ways.

Take the other day for example.  I was feeling pretty stoked on life.  I've been eating well, been working out, and I lost a few pounds.  I was walking around town like I was a honorary member of Puff Daddy and the Bad Boys.  You know, all like can't nobody hold me down.

And then, after model walking all over the streets of Wilmington, I get home.  There's a package on my doorstep, which fills me with delight.  After all, I've been anxiously tracking its journey from Old Navy Land to me.  I tear into the plastic, feeling like a child on Christmas.

I rip off my clothing and shimmy into the first suit.  I stand in front of the mirror. I hate it.  My body has lied to me.  Those hours in the gym have not been working.  The scale lied.  I've been eating fruits and vegetables for nothing.  I LOOK HORRIBLE.

I try on the next swimsuit.  It is cut differently than the first.  Surely it will make me look like the goddess I know myself to be.  Nope.  No dice.  In fact, this bottom is so awkward that a rogue breeze would expose my vagina to the world.   No thank you.  I like to keep my lady parts private.

I mean, seriously.  This is the year 2012.  Is it that hard for someone to make a swimsuit that flatters?  Perhaps even one that actually covers your lovely lady lumps? And can said magic suit be less than $50?  I don't think this is asking too much.

So now, I'm screwed.  I have to take my mail order swimsuits to the store.  I hate going to the store.  I'm going to have to search all over the racks for my size, which they probably won't even have.  And then I'm going to have to put my swimsuit on over my underwear, and stand under fluorescent lights, while some attendant hounds me from the other side of the door.  And I will probably still hate the way everything looks.  And then I'll have to go face down into a vat of froyo to console myself.  It's really a horrific cycle.

The moral of it all: This is why I need a sassy gay friend.  He'd tell me straight up if I looked like a beast in a bikini.  And I bet that he'd even be able to pick out a flattering suit that compliments not only my skin tone but also my eye color.  


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