"You've got to be kidding!" I wasn't talking to anyone in particular, but the woman in the next dressing room answered me, "Tell me about it!"
I wonder if she's trying on a bathing suit as well. I decided I didn't want to find out as she could be some 20-year old hottie stressing out about the fact that her boobs didn't fill out her bra. Assault and battery within the confines of a dressing room is clearly not commonplace and it would certainly be aired on the local news.
"Filling out" my bathing suit was not my problem and had not been my problem since I had to start shopping for one-piece suits. Bikinis weren't even in the realm of possibilities after I'd had children.
My stretch marks are actually a road map where every road leads directly to the cavernous darkness that is, or was, my belly button. If my husband saw fit to yell anywhere in the near vicinity of my belly button, he'd hear an echo fifteen minutes later.
I stared in the mirror in that cursed dressing room and saw a pair of dumpy, white legs that hadn't seen the sun or a razor since last summer. A pair of cellulite-ridden thighs topped them off and above that was that bathing suit I thought was so perfect while it was still on the rack. Only it was sonot perfect.
We're going to Florida to visit friends who incidentally also have five children. Those are the only kind of people who would let my family visit en-masseother than family, that is. They pretty much have to.
The last time we visited, we went to the beach where there was a rogue downpour. I happened to have their youngest daughter and mine with me when this cloudburst occurred. The girls and I ran to the towels and blankets and made a tent where we waited out the storm. We wriggled and scooched around in our little tent. The girls were just delighted with the turn of events.
It wasn't until the storm was over and the others returned from their hiding places that I learned that I'd made a huge impressionin a loaf of bread; the same loaf of bread with which we were to make sandwiches for our picnic. It was apparently under my rather largish butt the entire time. They insisted on using that loaf of bread anyway, even though it looked more like sheets of whole wheat paper.
Needless to say, I had hoped to make a better impression this year; but hopefully not on any food stuffs. This bathing suit will not help with that, however.
I can see it now, I'll walk on to the beach wearing this hideous piece of work and everyone will grab their loaves of bread - and small pets that might resemble a loaf of bread - and evacuate the beach.
I looked in the mirror again. What a disaster! I mean, what's with those strings hanging off the suit where my waist should be? Should I expect a horde of Lilliputians to come repelling down my thighs?
That certainly would make an impression, wouldn't it?
(EDITOR'S NOTE: You can reach Laura at lsnyder@lauraonlife.com Or visit her website www.lauraonlife.com for more columns and information about her books.)
