The Bathing Suit

When I was a child the bathing suit for the mature figure was boned,
trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were built
to hold back and uplift and they did a good job. Today's stretch fabrics
are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potato
chip.
The mature woman has a choice -- she can either go up front to the
maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away
looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney's Fantasia or she
can wander around every run of the mill department store trying to make a
sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of florescent
rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and
entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first
thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch
material.
The Lycra used in bathing cost umes was developed, I believe, by NASA to
launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that
if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from
shark attacks as any shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would
immediately suffer whip lash.
I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder
strap in place, I gasped in horror -- my boobs had disappeared!
Eventually, I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took a
while to fin d the other. At last I located it flattened beside my
seventh rib.
The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature
woman is meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed
bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a
full view assessment.
The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those
bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously
from top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lu mp of play dough wearing
undersized cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the
prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, 'Oh, there
you are,' she said, admiring the bathing suit.
I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to show me..
I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of
masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversized
napkin in a serving ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and
came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and having
a rough day.
I tried on a black number with a mesh midriff and looked like a
jellyfish in mourning.
I tried on a bright pink suit with such a high cut leg I thought I
would have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.
Finally, I found a suit that fit -- a two-piece affair with a shorts
style bo ttom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and
bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful
outcome, I figured.
When I got home, I found a label which read 'Material might become
transparent in water.'
So, if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of water
this year and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off jeans and a
t-shirt!


'Life isn't about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the
rain.'

This was not written by me, but worth sharing with all of you