The end of spring marks the beginning of the most dreaded time of year--bathing suit season. Shopping for a new suit is the most humiliating experience since getting on the doctor's scale in the ninth month of pregnancy.
Last year's suit always seems to shrink a few sizes during the long winter months, but I put off the inevitable until the heat makes it impossible for me to keep wearing leggings and a long sweatshirt to the beach.
So, on the first 100-degree day, I reluctantly enter a department store and try to inconspicuously look for the section containing the Lycra instruments of torture.
"Can I help you?" asks a teenage salesperson, who is the width of a twig.
"Not unless you're Mother Nature."
"Oh, I see," she says, nodding sympathetically. "The bathing suits are over there." She points to a display of Spandex that looks like a bunch of multi-colored rubber bands.
"Thank you," I mumble and walk toward the swimsuits.
"One or two piece?" the salesgirl continues, following closely behind.
"Four." I hold a suit against me. "Either this is mismarked or someone was kidding." I pause. "I need a swimsuit that says 'washing machine' not 'sex machine.'"
I watch the salesgirl leaf quickly through the racks.
"I need a cross between Wonder Bra, corset and camouflage," I continue.
"Speedo or OP?" she asks. "Bikini or French cut?"
"How about 'Mother of Two'?" I pause. "Something the color of spit-up, with an elastic tummy, detachable long skirt (that doubles as a canopy or burp cloth), waterproof pockets for snacks and diapers, sippy cup holders on either hip, and 'No Whining' printed in red letters across the front."
"Well," she stammers, "How about these?" She hands me a brightly colored one-piece that looks like the Brazilian flag, a suit made out of Barnum and Bailey's circus tent, and a bikini that would strangle a Chihuahua. She guides me to the dressing room where I grunt, groan, push and tuck my way into the suits. One hour and two hernias later I find a suit that fits, lets me breathe, and would've looked great--without my body in it.
As I look in the full-length mirror at my post-partum tummy and legs that had more stretch marks than the San Andreas Fault, I saw my children sitting on the bench in the dressing room making faces in the mirror.
"You look like Barbie," my daughter said, watching me.
"Barbie," echoed my son.
I smiled and realized that my children didn't see my faults. My blemishes weren't deformities; they were birthmarks, and my varicose veins were Purple Hearts in the battle of reproduction.
"I'll take it!" I cried from inside the dressing room. I didn't look younger or thinner. I looked like what I was, the mother of two, and it suited me just fine.
Debbie Farmer can be contacted at debbie@ecis.com.
Saratoga, California Since 1975
