We’re in the midst of swimsuit season. Again. I know this not
only because of the hot days, my collection of twenty-bazillion
bottles of sun block and the packs of bored kids roaming free in
the street. I know this because of the shocked, alarmed look on the
faces of most women my age.
We’re in the midst of swimsuit season. Again. I know this not only because of the hot days, my collection of twenty-bazillion bottles of sun block and the packs of bored kids roaming free in the street. I know this because of the shocked, alarmed look on the faces of most women my age.
Why, you ask? This is because from now until mid-fall we have to deal with an item that is so horrible and hideous that it has the power to cause women to fall sobbing helplessly on the dressing room floor (mind you, I’m even talking about the very same kind of women who normally kill big, fat spiders with their bare hands). Yes, I’m talking about – the swimsuit. Now, intellectually we all know that a few bands of lira shouldn’t have this sort of effect on a mature and self-confident person. Granted, we also know intellectually that shoulder pads and broomstick skirts should’ve never made a comeback. But still.
However, swimsuits are NOTHING TO JOKE ABOUT. And, what’s worse is that there’s no way to avoid them. Oh sure, you can try to go around in sweatpants and long sleeves, and you might get away with it for a while, but trust me, sooner or later people will catch on that you’re Trying To Hide Something Under There. Which is, well, true.
So recently, as I always do at this time of the year, I took a deep breath and a swig of cheap cooking wine, I mean diet soda, and I faced the massive blob that has become my body. I must say it’s amazing what goes on underneath winter clothes when you’re not paying attention. For some mysterious reason crucial parts of me seem much bigger and whiter than I remember them being last autumn.
Oh, okay, it’s not exactly like I don’t know what happened. It all started with the kids‚ leftover Halloween candy. Then I progressed with a harmless teeny-tiny extra helping of stuffing and, oh okay, a slightly bigger piece of pumpkin pie. By Christmas Eve I had moved on to harder-edged culinary items like fruitcake and homemade fudge. And then there was Easter, when I bottomed out, wolfing down three boxes of peeps, a bag of jellybeans and two solid chocolate bunnies.
But I digress.
The thing about swimsuit season is that similar to most painful experiences in life like, say, death, there’s no exit except by going forward and getting through it.
In fact the whole facing the swimsuit process is eerily like the six stages of the grieving process: denial, anger and guilt, depression, acceptance and finally empowerment. In other words, you 1) try on a suit, 2) freak out, 3) spend all afternoon on the treadmill, 4) eat a gallon of Chunky Monkey ice cream and 5) resign yourself to the one piece navy blue suit with the strategically placed mesh skirt from last year and 6) get on with your life.
Now I don’t need to tell you that a wiser person would’ve thought ahead and started some sort of exercise program back in the spring. A halfway wiser person would’ve at least cut back on the custard-filled Krispy Cremes after Mother’s Day. Me? I did what I usually do when faced with any sort of difficult situation: absolutely nothing.
Okay, not really. Instead, I did the other thing I usually do when faced with any sort of difficult situation: I lowered my goal. So, as of now, I no longer want to look like Cindy Crawford in a swimsuit. Instead I want to look like a middle-age-ish woman with two children. Now maybe in some circles this would be called “cheating.” I prefer to call this “creative problem solving.”
