> After a long and dreary winter full of snow plows and an equally long and dreary start to spring with massive flood waters interfering with my already draining commute, AND, with our first-time home buyers tax credit coming our way, AND me, being so tired that I no longer care about run-on sentences, grammatical errors or syntax…my husband and I thought it best we go away this spring break. Now, for those that know us, when Rich and I get away, it is seldom a vacation. We like to pick strange, remote, culturally rich locations that require maps, backpacks, safe drinking-water pellets, solid walking shoes,etc. Not this time. On a Saturday afternoon, still both in our pajamas, only getting up to make YET another pot of coffee, we realized that this year we didn’t want to compete with bugs, touchy intestinal tracts, rain coats or frustrated non-bilingual cab drivers.
We wanted white sand. We wanted warm water. We wanted a pink drink with an umbrella; to eat all day uninterrupted and to wake up with an ocean view. We didn’t want to be tempted to leave the property of the hotel by the lure of lush rain forests, the smell of exotic local food or the call of ancient ruins. We wanted to sleep, swim, read, eat, repeat. Thus, two tickets were booked for 5 days, 4 nights to Montego Bay, Jamaica. All details have been taken care of and I’ve had everything that will be packed delicately laid out for days; however, there was one thing haunting me that I could not escape. The bathing suit sized hole must be filled before getting on the plane.
I have successfully (or unsuccessfully, if you ask my terribly fashionable sister who is often horrified at my clothing purchases) avoided purchasing a bathing suit for going on 5 years. Said bathing suit is rather saggy in the bottom, has a bit of wear and tear across the top, but was, I thought, otherwise still in decent condition. Until, it spontaneously combusted in my washing machine.
This left me in quite a predicament. I’ve held onto my bathing suit for so long for several reasons.
1. I purchased it at j.crew when I was much younger, thinner and had less restraint on my budget.
2. My now frugal self would argue that it would silly to purchase another since this one was still functional, leaving me free not to face the fact that I have steadily gained a few lbs a year since the date of purchase
3. I HATE the one piece vs. two piece show down.
Everything in my already advanced beyond my years aged-self tells me that it is time to face the music. I am 27. I weigh 135 lbs at 5’5. I am a teacher, a wife, a home-owner. Sigh.
I am prime one-piece material.
So, I lingered in the one piece aisle. Even tried a few on for the first time since Saved by the Bell was on Saturday mornings, right before California Dreams. And have come to the following conclusion:
One pieces are both unflattering and uncomfortable and I will obstinately refuse to wear them. There. I said it. Here’s why:
1. If you have any other shape aside from pre-pubescent teenage boy, those straps just ain’t gonna stay up unless you tie the suckers together. Unless, of course, you go for the size smaller and are willing to put up with the uneasy feeling that a midget is clinging desperately to your shoulders, trying to drown you.
2. If you have chosen the latter, then I don’t have to tell you about the painful condition that is common among one-piece wearers- the hot dog bun. These are not love handles. They are not muffin tops. These are the hot dog bun-sized rolls that sneak out of the bottom of your one-piece due to how small it is, with a delicate red, ketchup line cutting off all circulation to your lower appendages.
3. Who would purchase an article of clothing that straps down your greatest asset in favor of highlighting the bulk of you????
4. I do not buy the “pull over” method. I am tired of emerging from the bathroom stall feeling as if I wrestled an anaconda trying to pull my wet, one piece back on.
There you have it. I hung up my sneaky suspicions of being too old, too fat, too this, too that and marched forward to the check-out line brandishing my new, two piece swim suit with the confidence only a non-hot dog bunning, anti-midget carrying, retired anaconda wrestling woman could possess.
I strongly encourage you to do the same.