Is it bathing suit time already?

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.”

“Bite me.”

“Ingrate.”

Click.

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…

Do these pants make me look groovy?

Spying myself in a shop window while I walked Roxy this afternoon made me realize I have to start dressing better.

Really, even a strong advocate of “clothes don’t make the monk” like myself has to draw the line somewhere.

Pretending I’m Charlize Theron in the movie, “Sweet November,” is not working anymore.

Let’s face it, Charlize wearing a ratty poncho still looks like a million dollars.

Me?

I still look like I’m wearing a ratty poncho.

Such is life.

In my defense, the day doesn’t seem to have enough hours.

It seems to pass by at lighting speed and before I know it, I only have a few minutes before Roxy has an accident on the carpet, or the Son starts screaming, “I’m sixty seconds away from gnawing on the legs of the dining room table!”

Is this the time to color coordinate an outfit and select the right accessories?

I don’t think so.

And so, with the intent of taking care of business before I have to witness the Significant Other trying to slice through a frozen pound cake with a butter knife, I’m out the door wearing whatever I threw on in the morning.

Today’s outfit consisted of a pair of pajama pants emblazoned with the word “groovy,” an old T-shirt that once upon a time used to be black but now has taken on a muted shade of gray, and a pair of old Birkenstocks I bought at a thrift shop ten years ago.

Hardly the epitome of groovy.

Tonight, I pondered why it is that some of us abandon our inner fashionista at a remote truck stop, never to be rescued again.

Do we do this because we’ve become too lazy to bother with our appearance?

Or do we do it because the older we get, the more our enlightened state tells us that clothes are not part of our spiritual essence?

Nevertheless, it doesn’t matter what we tell ourselves or how we try to convince ourselves there’s nothing wrong with our schizophrenic wardrobe choices.

The reality is that we should invest time on ourselves.

We deserve to put ourselves first.

Before our spouses, before our grown up “children,” before our furry friends.

It’s important for us to realize that we also matter.

Regardless that we may think that outward appearances aren’t important, the reality is that much of the time, looking good means feeling good.

And so, after much soul searching, I’ve come to the conclusion that perhaps it’s time to modify my “monk” mentality.

Because while it may be true that a badly dressed monk is still a monk, wearing a pair of pajama pants that say “groovy,” doesn’t mean I’m looking groovy.

How important is it for you to look nice?

Photo Credit: The Son

Today I’m linking up with Heidi’s Black and White Wednesday.

Sir, can I interest you in some Spanx?

cc licensed flickr photo shared by exfordy

Here I am again with another underpants post.

I know it’s soon after the last one, but seriously ladies, I feel it is my civic duty to create awareness to a little problem I’ve encountered as of late.

As of late?

Lets be honest; since like forever.

As you all know, I’m on the quest (aren’t we all?) to find a pair of perfect-fitting underpants.

I’m currently down to one pair that fits relatively well, but it’s being held together by a prayer.

Quite frankly, I don’t know how much fight they have left.

But I digress.

This weekend, I set out once more; determined to return home with the prize.

However, the pursuit of the perfect pair of panties has become quite challenging because everywhere I go, women are dead bent on establishing the trend to bring along their ball and chain to shop for their unmentionables.

I visited three lingerie departments, and to my dismay, every one of them had some irritating, little couple perusing underwear like they were picking out bone china.

WTF?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for dragging the man of the house to places like the supermarket, for example, so he can lug bags home on a bike, on the bus, or walk with them strapped to his back if need be.

But when the heck did men start to tag along to buy sports bras and Spanx?

Which brings me to bras.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but most of the time, I don’t bother to go into the dressing room to try on a bra.

I simply throw that bad boy on over my shirt to see if it fits or not.

Today I caught a guy staring at me over a rack of tankinis as I carried out this procedure.

In the meantime, his wife/girlfriend/sister/lover was standing just two feet away.

This makes me wonder if I should stop trying bras on in public, or if men should keep their asses at home and watch tv or whatever it is they do on the weekends.

I have never taken the Significant Other lingerie shopping.

As a matter of fact, I rarely take him shopping.

Why?

Because men are not built for it, ladies.

It’s not in their DNA; they don’t have what it takes.

So why do some of us insist on dragging them along?

And to make matters worse, foist them on other sisters who are trying to find a decent pair of underpants?

Why must we complicate our lives and the lives of other women this way?

I say keep those men at home.

If you feel that your man has to partake in the purchase of your lingerie, make it a couple activity, do it in the privacy of your home, and order it online.

Please allow the rest of us to shop for our skivvies without having to worry what the men in the “women’s” lingerie department will think when we make a bee line for the granny panties, or when we ask a sales clerk for body shaping undergarments, or garters, or a girdle, or even a pair of crotchless underpants for heaven’s sake.

Leave those men at home and allow us to find the right fitting underpants already!

I’m begging you!

Do you spot men in the lingerie department, and does it bother you as much as it bothers me?