In less than a month and a half, I’ll be headed for Spain.
I should be jumping for joy, but I’m too busy fretting over the fact that soon, my outfit du jour will be a bathing suit.
Because ladies, lets face it.
We all talk a good talk about being and feeling beautiful, but it’s not till you’re stripped down to nothing but a “stuck to your body like glue” one piece, that insecurities rise to the surface.
And stay there.
The entire summer long.
Thankfully, this year I’ve been spared the mood altering, “I’m-going-to-pass-out-where’s-the-panic-button-get-me-an-oxygen-mask-STAT” moment, brought on every time I have to buy a swimsuit.
My sister, brave soul that she is, courageously purchased what she claims are “no-nonsense, one size fits most” black one piece suits for my mom, herself, and me.
“So, are we all wearing the same swimsuit?”
“More or less. Mom’s has thicker straps, yours has criss cross straps, and mine looks like a turtleneck.”
“Criss cross straps? Seriously? You know I hate tan lines.”
“Like anyone’s going to be looking at tan lines on your back. Besides, they were on sale.”
“What? Three for the price of one?”
“Close. Buy one, get the second one half price.”
“So who gets the fourth suit?”
“I do. After all, who had to drink three cups of valerian tea, pop a Xanax, and assume the child pose for thirty minutes on the dirty floor of a brightly lit dressing room, to keep from hyperventilating?”
“And they’re all black?”
“No. They’re neon green. What do you think?”
“Great. We’ll look like three Italian widows gone to the beach to dip their toes.”
“Would you rather I had bought them in orange and have swimmers mistake us for buoys?”
“Three black mice. See how they run. I can hear the kids on the beach mocking us already.”
“More like three fat crows. See how they peck you to death. Look, the swimsuits have been purchased. No refunds. Next year you can get us some in bubblegum pink.”
“At least then they can call us the Pink Ladies.”
“Or the Three Little Pigs.”
Equipped with the knowledge that soon I’ll be strutting my stuff on a sandy Spanish beach, today I took action.
Armed with a fitness routine I got from Pinterest, a yoga mat that hasn’t been used in six years, and cross trainers that haven’t been worn in ten, I felt ready.
To be continued…