Shopping

cc licensed flickr photo shared by TranceMist

As I walked by a shop window today, I realized it’s that time again.

And by that time, I mean the time when I have to be strong and prepare for the moment.

And by moment, I mean when I finally realize there’s nothing I can do.

Because like the Terminator, it’s back.

The one I call my nemesis, my enemy, my foe; the one that taunts me, laughs at me, and wiggles a finger and says, “Oh no you didn’t!”

It’s here…the bathing suit. It’s here!

(screams of horror in the background)

I’m certain we’ve all made its acquaintance.

We all bear its scars.

I know I still wake up in the middle of the night screaming from our last encounter.

Nevertheless, the time has to come for me to face my fears.

It’s time I stand up to the bully and declare, “Someone’s going down today and it ain’t gonna be me!”

And so I walked into the shop and bravely grabbed the little monster from the rack.

I could hear it snickering….giggling…but I powered on, determined that this time around I would prevail.

Into the dressing room I went.

I quickly peeled off all my clothes before I lost whatever courage I had left.

I put my legs through and started to tug.

A minute later, screams of victory were heard as I succeeded getting it past my knees.

Like a slippery eel I wiggled and wiggled until I got the straps into place.

With eyes squeezed shut, I faced the mirror.

I tried to slow down my heart rate by doing the Lamaze breathing exercises I had learned for the Son’s birth twenty years ago.

I realized they weren’t working.

I started praying a Hail Mary.

I opened one eye half way.

I closed it again.

“Is everything alright in there?” asked the sales associate.

“Yes,” I nervously replied as I searched for a defibrillator in the tight confinement of the dressing room.

I should have known this was a bad idea.

What was I thinking?

I heard my mother’s voice in my head screaming, “Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s like ripping off a band-aid. What the hell are you waiting for?”

And that’s when I saw myself in the mirror.

Suddenly the dressing room started spinning, my knees buckled, my lower lip began to quiver, and I started to hyperventilate.

About to pass out from shock, I heard myself whisper, “Where’s the panic button?”

Dressing room attendant: “Is everything alright in there?”

Me: “Is there a doctor in the house?”

Dressing room attendant: “Yes, but he’s in the next dressing room with another lady. Can you hold on one more minute?”

Me: “Yes. I know Lamaze breathing.”

Dressing room attendant: “Great. Hang on. Help is on the way.”

And so ladies, here’s to raising awareness to a brand new situation.

This time I propose that the swim suit be fitted with the following label:

“Warning: Trying on this garment can be harmful to your physical and/or mental state and should only be tried on while in the company of someone who’s qualified to administer CPR and/or is able fit you into a straightjacket.”

Holler if you’re with me.

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?