Somebody find me an airbrush. I am about to enter the public forum of a family vacation water park in a bathing suit. Disclaimer: That appearance may be unsuitable for mature audiences (or immature ones, too). This display may contain content of an inappropriate nature, with scenes of graphic details that may be offensive to some audiences. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.
That’s what I thought as I stood in a change-room at a local department store trying on bathing suits. Oh, the indignation of a bathing suit. A simple, small article of clothing designed for perhaps the most beneficial of all workout exercises, and regrettably, the most feared item in my wardrobe.
No clothing makes me more anxious. Not even my own underwear freaks me out this much. Nobody knows the lengths I go to in order to slip into jeans and belts, layers of shirts and other accessories to present a streamlined, stealth figure size 8. Call it false advertising, but that would only make you a hypocrite. You do the same thing. There’s a reason Spanx is the hottest seller on The Shopping Channel. Don’t deny it.
I think we can all agree most people look better with clothes on. There is a reason we cover up, and it’s not frostbite, it’s common courtesy. Nobody needs to see the reality of another’s fleshy bits. It’s hard enough to look good on the outside, and we all try, but you should thank your lucky stars you don’t know what’s underneath all my cotton layers. I thank my lucky stars I don’t know what’s underneath yours too. Less is more, people. I don’t need a visual.
This doesn’t make me a prude, I hope, but don’t other people find it hard to go to a company pool party and talk to the guy from accounting when he’s in a Speedo? Or how do you look at the executive assistant the same way again when you can see her “tramp-stamp” tattoo? You are basically seeing people in their underwear, framed as a bathing suit, and forgive me, but it’s way too much information for me.
Now, back to the change room. I tried on no fewer than a dozen bathing suits. There was the horrid “1980s-fluorescents-are-back” version, which made my pasty-white winter skin look like sour milk. Next was a two-piece patterned replica of a fruit platter. I looked like Chiquita Banana. That was followed by a hideous “zebra-meets-a-bus” print, and the tragic one-piece ensemble that made me look like a navy blue pear past expiry. Ugh. The tight suits gave me bat wings, from the ever sexy back fat around the shoulder blades. The bathing suits with fake breast implants made me look like a flotation device. The ones without made me look like colourful lumber. I could not win. Mirrors don’t lie.
Eventually, I chose a striped top and those very forgiving trunks with the shame-hiding skirt. I don’t love the outfit, but I feel less likely to make the children of the water park cry. My own children are smart enough not to comment, or I will walk them through the stretch marks, veins and other horrors resulting from their subsequent births.
I want my 25-year-old body back. This time, I promise I’ll appreciate you. In the meantime, everybody out of the pool.