Unsuitable

I am about to have a reunion, and the outlook does not look good. We are headed to a wedding, and the hotel has swimming pools so I’m going to have to line my bathing suits up and see which one is the lucky one that gets to be worn by this goddess.

I never throw out my bathing suits. Every year they lie in wait in a quiet little drawer, hoping that this will be the year I choose one of them. Keep dreaming, ’cause mama has got stretch lines that they can’t record on a seismograph.

It started decades ago when I had saved up enough babysitting money to buy my very first bathing suit. I knew nothing about bathing suits and even less about cup sizes.

The one I had picked out after trying on every bathing suit in the store, and thought would be waiting for me on the rack the next day, apparently didn’t wait for me. I was forced to make another choice, and it was (drumroll, please) the Elly May of “The Beverly Hillbillies” cement pond. I thought I looked like Esther Williams!

The next style was apparently from my prison days because it was black-and-white stripes and certainly had none of the mystique. My bright floral number would’ve been fine if I had started chair exercises in December like I promised my arms that waddled. I’m still mad at the next bathing suit because the elasticity surrendered to my Saggy Harbor days. I haven’t worn most of these since the Beatles broke up.

Which leaves me with my old faithful polka-dot bathing suit that apparently goes well with my varicose veins and Minnie Mouse legs. I remember the day I bought that polka-dot vision 25 years ago. I came out of the dressing room wearing it, and a woman looked me up and down and said, “Oh, honey, ain’t nobody wearing polka dots since Princess Diana went to heaven.”

I don’t really know what size I am, but that little hint that they give you to put a pair of pants around your neck and that’s the size of your waist? Yeah, doesn’t really work for me.

There’s nothing like trying on bathing suits while the store radio is blasting Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time.” Not that it would do me any good, although the lighting in the dressing rooms certainly complements all my liver spots on my arms, torso and legs.

Back at the house, I try on a few more of my bathing suits, but apparently the moths have made that decision for me, so I won’t be using them anymore.
BBB asks, “Why are you getting so upset? You don’t even swim!”

Point taken.

Am I a helpless romantic? A loser? A wicked fat loser? No, I’m a realist. And a cheap one at that! I don’t wanna fork over money for a lost cause.

But because I’m an optimist, I say, “Au contraire!” It opens up a new world for me, actually two new worlds.

I can check out the maternity bathing suits and see how I’m doing in that department and then pretend I’m buying one for a pregnant friend. Or I can discover the world of bathing suit cover-ups, which until recently I thought were just loose blouses you could wear sans a swimming pool.

Option number three is I could light a candle and hope that hurricane season starts early and it rains during my hotel stay.

Now, that suits me fine!