Angel's Craft
"BATHING BLUES"
[This
is hilarious.]
I
have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and humiliation known
as buying a bathing suit. When I was a child in the 1950’s, the bathing costume
for a woman with a mature figure was designed for a woman with a mature figure.
It was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were
built to hold back, uplift and support and they did a darn good job. Today’s
stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure chipped
from marble.
The
mature woman has a choice. She can either front up at the maternity department
where she can try on a floral costume with a skirt [and come away looking like
the hippo in 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 fluorescent 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 suits was
developed [I believe] by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot. This gives
you the added bonus that if you actually manage to lever yourself into one, you
are protected from shark attacks. No shark in its right mind would take a swipe
at your passing midriff or it would immediately suffer whiplash.
With
many a grunt and groan, I fought my way into the bathing suit but as I twanged
the shoulder strap into place I gasped in horror – my chest had disappeared!
Eventually I found one breast cowering under my left armpit. It took me awhile
to find the other. I finally found it flattened beside my seventh rib. You see,
the problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is
meant to wear her breasts spread across her chest like a speed bump. This may
be okay for flat-chested or perky-breasted young things, but for those of us
with actual breasts this is akin to releasing dams that have been held back for
years - once freed they can cause a lot of destruction, [especially to your
ribs and peck muscles] as they head south. Well, 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 of it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom
and sides. I looked like a lump of play-dough wearing undersize cling wrap. As
I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the puerile
salesgirl popped her head through the curtains. "Oh, THERE you are!"
she said as she admired the bathing suit on me. I whimpered that I wasn’t very
impressed with the look of it as I quickly glanced down to find yet another
part of me slowly seeping out [and just when I thought I had securely tucked it
in]. With a bowed head [and a watchful eye] I asked her what else she could
show me.
I
tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape. A
floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversize napkin in a serviette
ring. I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with a ragged frill and
came out looking like Tarzan’s Jane on a bad day. I tried on a bright pink one
with such a high-cut leg I thought I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.
Finally I found a costume that fit … a two-piece affair with shorts style bottoms
and a halter-top. It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge friendly, so I bought
it.
When
I got home, I read the label which said, "Material may become transparent
in water." Well, I’m determined to wear it anyway. I just have to learn to
breaststroke in the sand.
Written
by Victoria & Carol
DAM CONTROL or THE WEDDING TRAP
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