It has come.
The day all womankind fears,
The day I must buy a bathing suit.
Lord help us.
Today I go into the fluorescent lit rooms dreading the sight which awaits me. I know the lights are designed to enhance all of my physical flaws. In the mirrors I see pox marks covering every inch of my body, which is funny since I've never had the pox. Dimples, adorable on Shirley Temple, look cavernous on the back of my thighs. My skin is the grayish pallor of the recently dead or one who should be so lucky.
And who can forget the dreaded tri-fold mirror. Designed by Marquis de Sade's star pupil no doubt. I should not have to turn to the right and be horrified with the ungodly sight of an old lady's butt firmly attached to my own body. Oh the humanity. At one time it was a sight to behold, but now I resemble a product from the Island of Dr. Moreau. No one should have to look at it without the good fortune of being struck blind. Mothers tell their children stories to scare them into behaving, "better be good or God will strike you down and give you an Anita butt."
Of course I do have the option of buying one of those bathing suits with an attached pleated white sailor skirt, but I simply cannot wear one of those; at age 5 it is cute, at age 40 it should be a felony. I might as well say farewell to any remaining self esteem and don a white rubber swim cap gleefully adorned with yellow daisies.
My friend has offered to let me come over and try on some of her suits to see if they fit. This would save me from the above mentioned lights and give me the opportunity to use her children as a litmus test: If they start to cry then the suit is not for me.
Co-workers try to assuage my fears by telling me to look at other people. That I'll find solace in the fact that I look better than they do at that moment. But what if I am someone else's comparison model? I don't want to be "that girl" when viewed by others. You may be wondering why I do this. Why do I put myself through the stress, pain and trauma? Because I want to be able to swim up to the in-pool bar in Cabo and order a margarita. I think the desire to drink while lounging in a pool is a perfectly valid reason for going through all that torture, although no fair mentioning the occasional drunk slipping under the water. Thanks for the warning, but I'll take my chances. Maybe I'll just buy everyone a margarita laced with a Xanex then they won't notice my thighs because their eyesight will be too fuzzy. Either that or I'm resigned to swimming at night.
The day all womankind fears,
The day I must buy a bathing suit.
Lord help us.
Today I go into the fluorescent lit rooms dreading the sight which awaits me. I know the lights are designed to enhance all of my physical flaws. In the mirrors I see pox marks covering every inch of my body, which is funny since I've never had the pox. Dimples, adorable on Shirley Temple, look cavernous on the back of my thighs. My skin is the grayish pallor of the recently dead or one who should be so lucky.
And who can forget the dreaded tri-fold mirror. Designed by Marquis de Sade's star pupil no doubt. I should not have to turn to the right and be horrified with the ungodly sight of an old lady's butt firmly attached to my own body. Oh the humanity. At one time it was a sight to behold, but now I resemble a product from the Island of Dr. Moreau. No one should have to look at it without the good fortune of being struck blind. Mothers tell their children stories to scare them into behaving, "better be good or God will strike you down and give you an Anita butt."
Of course I do have the option of buying one of those bathing suits with an attached pleated white sailor skirt, but I simply cannot wear one of those; at age 5 it is cute, at age 40 it should be a felony. I might as well say farewell to any remaining self esteem and don a white rubber swim cap gleefully adorned with yellow daisies.
My friend has offered to let me come over and try on some of her suits to see if they fit. This would save me from the above mentioned lights and give me the opportunity to use her children as a litmus test: If they start to cry then the suit is not for me.
Co-workers try to assuage my fears by telling me to look at other people. That I'll find solace in the fact that I look better than they do at that moment. But what if I am someone else's comparison model? I don't want to be "that girl" when viewed by others. You may be wondering why I do this. Why do I put myself through the stress, pain and trauma? Because I want to be able to swim up to the in-pool bar in Cabo and order a margarita. I think the desire to drink while lounging in a pool is a perfectly valid reason for going through all that torture, although no fair mentioning the occasional drunk slipping under the water. Thanks for the warning, but I'll take my chances. Maybe I'll just buy everyone a margarita laced with a Xanex then they won't notice my thighs because their eyesight will be too fuzzy. Either that or I'm resigned to swimming at night.
Wish me luck, I'm diving in.
No comments:
Post a Comment