Bathing Suit Tragedies Part II

This is an update to yesterday's blog, which ended with the desperate search for the meaning of life - or at least for my two girls rattling around in a bathing suit bust the size of Arkansas. I took the kids to Target to hunt down a decent bathing suit. I'll tell ya right now, it didn't happen in Target. You'd think after forty-some odd years I'd know this by now, but it seems that when bathing suits first hit the stores EVERYONE takes a day or two off work and trolls through the racks, looking for the Right Suit, much the same way a plague of locusts shear down fields of grain, leaving a sad stalk or two swinging brokenly in the wind . Every place I tried for bathing suits, the sales ladies said the same thing: "What we have left is on that tiny rack there in the corner." Well. Thanks for nothing. So we're at Target, right? Right. And I looked through the pitiful stock that was left. There was only one suit that came even close to my size, and it was completely black. There was also only one coverup in my size, and it was also all black. Yuck, yuck, and double yuck. But, I thought, "What the heck, let's try it" and took them into the fitting room. (What an ironic name for a room that shows 360 degrees of something NOT fitting....) The kids fought over who got to sit on the one little stool in the corner while I huffed and puffed and stretched the suit over me. As various parts of my body began to lose circulation, I realized that this was one of those control-type suits. The black is meant to complement the red body parts that contain all your blood, while covering up your trunk that is now dead white from lack of blood. So I'm standing there, starting to feel woozy, and I pull on the coverup. "Dadgum, I look like Nanny McPhee," I thought. No way can I wear this in front of my whole family for an entire week. I couldn't even wear it for five minutes without seeing little bursts of light in front of my eyes. I extricated myself from the suit like a snake trying to shed its skin - it wasn't pretty - breathed for a few minutes, re-dressed, and left Target (but not before Sam managed to lose his blankie SOMEWHERE, making us do two laps around Target looking for it - it was in the pharmacy department).

So, that brings us to last night. I decided to try Kohl's, on a friend's suggestion. I walked in and was cheered by the sight of umpteen racks just full of bathing suits. I asked where the plus-sized suits were and was told (say it with me, now): "What we have left is on that tiny rack in the corner." No way. I roamed around, searching for misplaced suits, and came to the sick realization that there were, in fact, only a handful left that might - MIGHT - work. SM and the kids came in to offer moral support. It did lift my spirits briefly, seeing Sam put bikini bottoms upside down on his head so that he could look through the leg holes, but the great problem of the universe was still upon me: finding a decent suit. Lord, help. There were no one-piece suits that worked, so I rummaged until I found a mini-skirt bottom and a tank top. There was also one cover-up left that I thought might do the trick, and it even matched the bathing suit pieces, so I pulled it out, too. I went to the dressing room, offering a prayer to the patron saint of bathing suit shoppers, whoever that might be, telling God the whole time that if He'd just let this one suit fit all right I'd swear off ice cream mules and Cheetos for life. I pulled on the skirt - it fit. Holy flippin' cow. It fit. Trembling, I pulled on the tank top. IT FIT. I lifted my eyes to look in the mirror. Oh. My. Goodness. It looked cute!!!!! And the bust wasn't 14 sizes too big!!! Now to complete the trifecta. I put on the coverup, a cute little shift with bronze rings attaching from the straps to the bodice. It slid right over me, right to the bottom of the mini-skirt. Thank you, thank you, thank you. SM and the kids were too far away for me to holler and get them to come look, so with shaking hands and glad heart I stripped, re-dressed, and emerged from the dressing room with a triumphant smile. I'm not sure, but there may have been angels blowing trumpets over my head as I walked out. You know that thought you have when you get a boyfriend? "There. Now I'm like other girls. I belong to The Club." And when you get married? "There. Now I belong to The Club." And when you have kids: "HOW DO I GET OUT OF THE CLUB???" No, no, just kidding. It's The Club, all over again, isn't it? And then the true cherry on top of it all: "I HAVE A NEW BATHING SUIT, IT FITS, AND IT'S PRETTY. I BELONG TO THE CLUB!"