This week, I descended briefly into hell; specifically, swimsuit shopping hell; even more specifically, a brightly lit department store lined with racks of teeny bathers that would barely cover my bum or leave me change from $200.iStock
I used to enjoy swimsuit shopping, back in the previous century when I hadn’t yet birthed three babies, or acquired a post-C-section “pouch”, or suffered from an unpleasant condition known as “pelvic vein congestion”. I could walk into a store and throw on some skimpy bikini, and it would cost a few dollars, and I would prance out to the beach.by my swimsuit. I don’t want the only thing between me and nudity to be three tiny triangles held together with string.
I tried browsing online, but you need to try on swimwear to determine how it will look and feel. So off I trudged to shops filled with itsy bitsy-bikinis that would look fabulous on my daughters but were way too flimsy for me.The one-pieces were substantial, but they were all completely wrong. Either they had no breast support, so my boobs hung limply beneath the spandex, or they had huge built-in cups that gave off Barbarella vibes.
Still, I pushed on. I spent hours under harsh change-room lights that screamed “Buy fake tan!” and “Do sit-ups!” and “Get some more sleep!” I tried on tops that made me look completely flat, and tops with cups that my poor little boobs swam in . I tried on matronly bottoms that came up past my navel, and a pair of tiny briefs that left my cheeks on full display.
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