My facebook status read: “Swimsuit shopping. I’d rather poke myself in the eye repeatedly.”
It was miserable.
The first two stores were complete failures. I arrived at the third store with a dreadfully tiny bit of self-esteem and a glimmer of hope. I knew I’d be spending far too much for a swimsuit at this store, but they had the reputation of offering the best options in town. I dragged my forlorn self into the swimwear department. I scanned the racks for the fat girl/old lady section. Yep, just as I suspected…in the back corner. At least I could preserve some dignity while the cute chicks perused the ruffled bikinis in the front.
I grabbed a few and headed to the fitting room (or as I’d like to call it, the chamber of pathetically humiliating torture). The cheerful, petite saleswoman led me to the large stall, put my hangers on the rack and said she would be back to check on me.
After trying on 4 swimsuits, I found myself sitting on the chocolate (Their decorators taunt me!) brown leather chair in front of the mirror…sobbing.
Saleswoman: M’am, how are you doing in there?
Me: <sniff> Umm, I’m OK. Just crying because I’m so frustrated with my body. I’ll be fine.
Long awkward pause…
Saleswoman: Oh. I meant how are the swimsuits fitting? Do you need me to get you a different size?
Me: No, m’am. I’m starting to think I just need to wear sweatpants to the beach.
Saleswoman: Have you tried our “Miraclesuit?” It promises to make you look 10 pounds lighter. I’ll bring you a few to try.
I wasn’t sure if I should be offended that she thought I needed a miracle or if I should hug her neck for introducing me to the hope of a decent swimsuit.
Then she brought me these lovely swimsuits…each promising miraculous results.
And I tugged. And I huffed. And I puffed. And I tugged. And I looked at my reflection, hoping to hear angelic voices heralding the vision of a miracle. I still saw a fat girl in a swimsuit. Only the fat girl was REALLY sweaty. Sheesh…I’d need a team of engineers to help me get in and out of this swimsuit. Oh, and then I saw the price. Dear word, no.
So I finally settled for something at the fourth store I visited. It is what it is. It’s not pretty. I’m not pretty in it. But it’s not the swimsuit’s fault. *sigh*
I came home and decided to be grouchy the rest of the day. My husband says I was good at it.
I also vowed to NOT be wearing this size next summer. And since I will surely be asked by People or Woman’s Day to be in an inspirational “This pitiful woman lost a gazillion pounds and so can you” piece when that happens, I even snapped what I’ll use as my “before” picture while I was trying on the swimsuit I ended up purchasing. Look for it on magazine stands next summer!
Also? I realized I had blogged about the illustrious “Miraclesuit” in 2008. Yep. Here it is.
*This is NOT a sponsored post. The makers of the “Miraclesuit” don’t know me from a plump Eve.*
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- Same but Different
- In Memoriam: Ms. Betty
- I Know it Isn’t Normal to be Like This
- One Step at a Time
- Between Merry and Melancholy