June 30, 2008 05:28 pm
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It’s summer again, and we all know what that brings. No, I’m not talking about days hot enough to fry an egg on the hood of the car. Or flies. Or those moments when you wonder whether the potato salad is still good to eat or if it’s been in a cooler too long.
I’m talking about something serious. Something that can change one’s world.
I’m speaking of swimsuit shopping.
Oh, I have suits. Stretched-out, faded-out swimsuits that are great for washing the car where no one can see but no longer appropriate for pool or pond.
So, on the way home from work, I decided to stop by a favorite store and buy a new one. After all, how hard could it be?
Fashion is not my forte. So I was completely unprepared for the wide variety of suits spread across one wall.
A kindly clerk, taking pity on me as I stood there with that deer in the headlights gaze, took pity on me. She opened the conversation with one simple question:
“What are you looking for?”
What I would have liked was one of those from the 1890s. You know, the one-piece kind with sleeves and bloomers to the knees. The sort ladies wore when showing a glimpse of ankle was considered risque.
Unfortunately, they don’t make those any more. They don’t seem to make the simple tank suits that I’ve always worn, either.
I tried to follow along as the clerk whipped out one suit after another, my confusion growing as she rattled off the various names, losing me at tankini.
Maybe, she suggested, I’d like to try separates. Pick my own top and match it up with the bottom of my choice. Now she’s naming parts, halter and tank top and boy cut and bikini, until everything blurs together.
My only chance for escape was to grab an armful and run to the dressing room. There, in the privacy of that tiny space, I tried on one after another.
Trust me, it wasn’t pretty. Think Pillsbury Dough Boy in floral spandex, and you get a rough idea of just how disturbing it was when I turned to face the mirror.
The clerk proved less than helpful by wandering and, in that chipper voice they always use, inquiring how I was doing.
“Would you like me to bring a few more?” she asked cheerfully.
No. I’d already gone through leopard print, bright tropical floral, yellow and brown geometric print and navy and pink polka dot.
I’d tried on tie necks and criss-cross back straps that would have challenged Houdini.
Finally, I was down to the last two. Both were the recommended color for us chunky folks — basic black — with “slimming panels” that are supposed to hide one’s tummy. Because, you know, it would be terrible if you had a tummy bulge to go with the marshmallow thighs one exposes in a swimsuit du jour.
The first of those would have been okay if I’d had a more swan-like neck and been six feet tall. The very last suit I was willing to consider worked OK — a little skirt to cover halfway to my knees, a surplice bodice for support and a back high enough to eliminate the chance of plumber’s crack.
I wore it for the first time to the pool the other day. And I must say, I didn’t feel half-bad in it.
So let’s not talk about the fact that only a contortionist could get out of that wet suit with its ton of elastic, miles of fabric and lovely tummy panel in less than half an hour.
CATHIE SHAFFER can be reached at (606) 473-9851.
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