On Bathing Suits

There is, for the average woman, perhaps no better way to ruin a perfectly good day than to go shopping for a new bathing suit.

In less than two weeks I will be shaking the dust of this little town and going on vacation. If the universe is feeling particularly merciful, the weather will be warm and sunny enough for me to bask outside and listen to the ocean. If the universe is NOT feeling merciful, per usual, there is a hot tub. Either way, though, I need a new bathing suit. Preferably one that does not make me want to hurt myself, or make my companions want to gouge out their own eyes.

Now, I understand that it is a rare woman indeed who feels perfect confidence in a suit. I don’t know any; I don’t think I even want to. My problem isn’t the leap of faith between dressing room and lounge chair. No, it’s finding a suit that I even want to take from the rack to the dressing room.

You see, there’s this thing about me. Things, really. They’re boobs. And they’re real. And without support, they become sad and pouty. They rebel. They refuse to participate in planned activities. Uncontained fake boobs will drift about the room and bounce off the ceiling like big souvenir helium balloons from the zoo. Real boobs, being of this Earth, are subject to the more fundamental laws of physics. Like that bastard, gravity.

So. I need to find a bathing suit that will offer the girls some support so that they enjoy their time in the sun, however brief it might be. And because I have the body of someone who enjoys food and drink without the stupid interference of jogging, I need some kind of coverage.

Here’s the thing, though. I am not a post-menopausal shapeless sack. I have curves, a waist even. My body is not perfect, but I don’t absolutely make people fucking ill. And I don’t care to drape myself in yards of lycra like some hideous redone throwback to the 19th century. Cut me some slack here, people.

Grrr. Bastards.