One of the best parts of living in Orlando is that I get to reconnect with my oldest friend, Sarah.
I’ve known Sarah since we were in 6th grade. She sat behind me in our Social Studies class and we’ve been friends ever since. We went away to college together and even lived together for a year. As we’ve grown up, we’ve gone on to do different things and lead different lives, but we still have stayed good friends. She’s the kind of person you can call after three or four months and you can just pick up the conversation like no time has passed at all. Fortunately for me, we won’t have to go three or four months anymore because Sarah lives in Orlando with her husband Scott.
Correction. Sarah lives in Orlando with her husband Scott who has one of the best smiles I have ever seen. Yes. That’s better.
Anyway, Sarah invited Bean and me over to her house tomorrow for lunch and a little swim in her pool. I was so excited!
I was excited right up until I realized that I would have to wear a bathing suit. And then I started drinking heavily. Bathing suits have that effect on me.
So, tonight I put Bean to bed, kissed Chris goodbye, and went to the only place that I could feel better. Target. I walked in the doors whispering, “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!” But then I took a left into the bathing suit section and suddenly my sanctuary was gone and I was in the pits of hell.
I haven’t worn a bathing suit in five years. And in about five minutes of flipping through suits, I remembered why.
Bathing suits are cruel.
After having Bean, my body is…well…its not what it used to be. I’m rounder. I’m softer. And while my stretch marks have faded significantly, they are still very visible. So, I bypassed all the bikinis and went straight to the one-pieces. And, it wasn’t really so bad at first. There were some cute suits. They’re all cute suits when they’re hanging on the hangers.
But then you step into the dressing room. That tiny little dressing room. Where its just you and the suit.
They really should make those dressing rooms bigger. They should have little couches in there so that when you try on a suit and realize that you are two sizes bigger than you were last year, you can faint onto a soft surface. And they should have padded, sound proof walls so that after you come to, you can scream and throw yourself up against the walls without worrying that anyone will hear or see. And they should have mini-fridges filled with those little bottles of alcohol like they have on airplanes so that after you scream and throw a fit, you can drown your sorrows.
Alas, my dressing room had none of these things and when I tried on the 3,000 suits I picked out (give or take a few), I had to cry quietly in my little room so that the skinny little eighteen year old college freshmen who were trying on bikinis next to me for their Cancun spring break couldn’t hear.
I did find one suit though. And while it definitely looked better on the hanger, it wasn’t horrific.
I mean, it had polk-a-dots, for crying out loud. How scary could it be?
And it has this fun little ruffle at the bottom.
Let’s talk about that ruffle for a minute. What is the purpose of that ruffle? I mean, really. Look how small it is. And it goes across your hips – the widest part of a woman who has birthed a giant baby. If the designers really wanted to help us out, they would make that ruffle a whole lot bigger. Like, REALLY big. Or, if the idea is to distract the eye so that you don’t notice the large ass that is under that tiny ruffle, then maybe a few strategically placed, enormous fake birds could be sewn on the suit somewhere. That’s distracting. Or, maybe the suit could come with a set of flaming hoops and I could juggle those when I wear it. I’m positive no one would care about my wide hips and tiny ruffle with flaming hoops flying around…
Oh, to hell with it all. I’ll just wrap myself in my towel and have another margarita.
So, I come home feeling so defeated. So vulnerable. So pissy. And what does Chris say when I try to explain the past hour of torture to him?
“Well, how much did you spend?”
Are you freaking kidding me? I just spent an hour of my life stuffing my mushy, stretched, flabby stomach into spandex. As if that isn’t traumatic enough, I had to come home to harassment about money. I just couldn’t take it. So, I sat down on the couch with my Target bag in my lap, and I ate a bag of Easter candy and a loaf of bread.
Boys just don’t understand.