After spending forty-five <insert your favorite melodramatic adjective here> minutes in the dressing room, I'm utterly convinced that in a modern-day version of Dante's Inferno, one of the circles of hell would be shopping for a swimsuit. Never-you-mind that I will own up to the fact that I no longer have the body of a 16-year old teeny-bopper. Disregard the fact that it seems the less fabric there is, the more the suit costs. (For the record, I just glance at those, laugh uproariously, and move along!). And, the pale pink glare of the hideous fluorescent dressing room lights notwithstanding. Yes, you're feeling this, my sister. I just know it.
And trying to find a suit that is modest though not frumpy, comfortable yet not muumuu- like, is about as futile as searching for the Fountain of Youth where apparently Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, and Elvis gather for an annual charity event. So. Not. Fun.
Look online, my friends say. That's all fine and good. But haven't we all learned that just because it looks good in the advertisement, doesn't necessarily mean it will look good on us? I need to try these things on--but yet, I hate doing it. "Hate" is such a lightweight word in this case. Dare I say loathe? Despise? Yup. Both of 'em.
I'm stuck somewhere in the middle of wanting Mary Pat, Mary Frances, and Mary Katherine to bring me everything off the rack that might look good, whilst I sit in an overstuffed chair, in a luxuriously air conditioned (and might I note, properly lighted!) dressing parlor--a la Pretty Woman. And, to keep the realism of chick movies in view, how about Cher's electronic closet in Clueless? But alas, most of us dwell in the real world. The garishly-lit, claustrophobically-tiny dressing rooms of the real world.
So, it comes down to this. You just give up. Or you watch this clip. Laugh until your sides hurt. And, pack up the pool bag and head out. Wearing the tried and true suit that may or may not be adorning the covers of Vogue this season. But, you like it. Voila.
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