Buying a Bathing Suit: The Great Equalizer

Summer is here in full swing, folks, and in addition to confronting triple digit temperatures and astronomical electric bills, it's time to face the dreaded bathing suit season.

I, like many of my contemporaries, hate buying a bathing suit. First of all, they are too expensive. Second of all, if you want to buy one that fits, you have to try one on. (Or two, or three, or however many it takes to find one that will hide everything that you want it to hide without pinching everything that you don't want it to pinch.) And if you want to try one on, you must subject yourself to dressing-room lighting, which is, unquestionably and yet ironically, the harshest and most unforgiving lighting on the planet.

For the past two summers, I have happily gotten away with not buying a bathing suit. This is in large part because any time that I considered taking the plunge and buying a new one, (pun intended) I have completely and utterly chickened out. And as much as I blame the priciness of the whole endeavor, deep down I know that it is something else altogether. So, alas and alack, after two years of beach camping and splash park going and general swimming revelry, I was faced with one sad fact: it was time for a new one.

Last Wednesday, during that magical hour between dinner and bedtime, I decided to face the truth and make a run for it. With a newfound determination, I drove as quickly as I could to Kohl's where they were having a half-off bathing suit sale for one day only. I rushed into the store and made a quick left, and there it was: that over-priced, glistening section of women's apparel that has been the source of millions of women's self-esteem issues for decades. I literally wanted to turn around and walk out.

Bravely, however, I approached the racks. Another woman that was there perusing must have sensed my apprehension. "Having fun?" she asked, jokingly. I told her exactly what I was thinking: "You know, there is something inherently traumatizing about shopping for a bathing suit." She responded, "I know. They should just have an order window where you can go up and tell them exactly what you need." "Yes," I said. "You should be able to just list you body type and problem areas, and then they can come up with the perfect bathing suit for you." She nodded in agreement. Kindred spirits, we were. It was so nice to bond with someone during such a difficult ordeal.

I knew I couldn't stand there indefinitely with a grimace on my face, so, trying to be confident, (but really panicking) I grabbed a few selections that were "sure" to at least mostly fit... and headed for the dressing room. (Unfortunately my selection included the most granny-like bottoms I could find.)

Round one: Nothing fits. Not even the granny bottoms. I take them back to the rack, where my new friend is still looking. Shoving them back into the wrong places, I mumbled, "that was even more depressing than I thought." She looks at me and smiles sympathetically.

Now I am even closer to a panic. I race through the racks, and in the meantime, "I shouldn't be here, these aren't even the right sizes, I will never find one that fits, I need to get back home, this is ridiculous" is repeating in my head like a broken record. What a sad mommy.

Finally I manage to make a new selection, promising myself that I will leave the store and never come back if this one doesn't fit. Smartly, I grab the size bigger than I think I am and...ta-da! I have squozen into it, and I can still breathe, and not quite everything shows, and it's half-off, so I won't even have to take out a loan to buy it. Whew. (Why doesn't every bathing suit have a tummy control panel?) Too bad my friend wasn't around to join in my silent celebration. Time to get out of there.

I rush out of the store, both because I want to distance myself from the too-new memory of the experience, and because I am sure that, by now, my baby is screaming back at the house. (Which she was.) I walk to my car like a soldier returning to his homeland with immeasurable spoils, and I comfort myself with the fact that I never have to do it again. Because I have decided that this is the bathing suit that's going to last forever.