Summer arrived as I emerged from my flannel cocoon in quest of a flattering swimsuit. “Au Naturel” is not my flavor, so a Brazilian wax complementing a thong is definitely out of the question. Who needs the torture of dental floss wedged up your privates after a painful waxing below an upper lip? Anyway, not wanting to be mistaken for Sasquatch, hunted down, mounted, and displayed as a prized catch above a fireplace mantel, I meticulously shaved my legs and bikini line. I slipped into a comfortable pair of jeans, strapped on my faithful eighteen-hour bra and prayed it would protect, lift, and separate my spirit from any vicious truths I may encounter. Realizing the journey would be a harrowing experience, I calmed my jitters with a shot of Tequila and a twist of lime.
Venturing into the shop of horrors, I found myself trapped in a maze of every marketer’s dream. I seized several suits off the rack cleverly disguised as tummy tuckers, breast enhancers and butt reducers, and flip-flopped towards the dressing room. A neon sign above its threshold read:
“Swimsuit shopping may be hazardous to your health. This establishment is not liable for mental breakdowns. There will be no cursing. A little whining is accepted. Swimsuits must be tried on over your underwear. We must protect ourselves against any lingering DNA. Security is in full force at all times!”
Feeling lightheaded from the buzz of solenoids escaping from the flickering fluorescent lighting, I signed a waiver witnessed by the attendant relinquishing my rights to any major lawsuit. I left a contact number of my next of kin in case I became mentally or physically ill. The distorted, crackling speakers emitting “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” was reminiscent of a time forgotten. The music did not disguise the muffled sobbing resonating beneath door No.1 or the choruses of “Hallelujah” behind door No.2. Some nut in dressing room three was debating with her Gemini twin on how they would look dancing the limbo in a bikini.
I disrobed in front of the three-way mirror, leaving my granny panties intact. It was difficult to comprehend the metamorphous of my body after only one year of hibernation. An apparition of my girlish figure lurked behind dimpled globs of cellulite where toned muscles once turned the heads of admirers. My perky breasts no longer stood in salute, but compassed south where they nestled above my protruding belly.
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