Swimsuits will never flatter

Published 12:00 am Tuesday, July 2, 2002

There’s a certain time of year that strikes fear into the heart of every woman.

It comes about May, when the temperature starts rising and you detect the faint call of the ocean.

Just as you are plotting ways to bury your toes in the sand, you are struck with a horrifying reality: you don’t have anything to wear to the beach.

You have to buy a new bathing suit.

Shivers run down your spine. At least they did mine when I headed out to the mall recently, determined to find something I could wear around the pool.

I wanted to buy a nice, conservative bathing suit but didn’t want to look like someone’s grandmother.

I’m not getting any younger, but I didn’t think I was ready for the woolen suit with a skirt, at least not for another year or two.

Trying on bathing suits is a lesson in torture.

You shop around for hours, debating between the pink suit and the red one, comparing the linings, closures and how the holes where the legs are supposed to be will end up on your body.

You then go into the dressing room to try on the myriad of bathing suits.

You stand there on the store carpet, barefooted and tender- hearted. The lighting is horrible &045; it seems to highlight each vein and dimple on your body.

&uot;Were these there yesterday?&uot; you ask as you size yourself up.

&uot;Shouldn’t someone have mentioned to me that it looks like a person has taken a blue magic marker to my leg? When did this happen?&uot;

You tug and pull, trying to adjust the suit to fit your body, or at least cover those parts that will get you arrested if you show in public.

Finally, you find one that you think won’t scare small children.

Consider this a measure of success.

Then you look at the price tag. It seems they want $112 for about two yards of fabric. It’s an awful lot of money, but you’re willing to pay this to save yourself from trying on more suits.

After all, $112 is a small ransom to pay for your already shaky self-esteem.

As for myself, I purchased something called the &uot;Miracle Suit.&uot;

It’s designed to tuck you in and pull you all together. I guess it does, though I suspect the real miracle is that they can convince anyone to pay $112 for a bathing suit.

I then went and purchased a cover-up. Rather ironic, don’t you think?

After all the work and trauma associated with finding the perfect bathing suit, I went and bought another over-priced two yards of fabric to cover the whole thing up.

At least I won’t scare the children