Another day, another…something or other.
Next week, we’re going to Tennessee for a coupla days, so I’ll be incommunicado, which means that I’m scrambling to get Diggers done over the weekend. In accordance with the ancient laws of the universe, one always suffers the huge bill immediately before one goes on a trip (although that probably has more to do with taking the car in before a long road trip than anything else.) But also in accordance with ancient law, the trip has been planned for months and cannot be put off. Oh, well, what can you do? At least Tennessee is dirt cheap. It’s…well…Tennessee.
The place we’re staying is supposed to have a hot tub. It occurred to James and I that we do not own bathing suits, or if we do, they have been packed in a box since we left Arizona some years ago. Since we’ll be with friends, there is much hanging out in hot tub anticipated.
I went off to find a bathing suit. This is an experience guaranteed to stomp one’s ego into teeny, tiny, tragic pieces.
Ah. End of season. Unlike Arizona, swimming is not a year-round sport here. Every bathing suit they had was on the clearance rack, and there weren’t many of ’em.
Ah. Apparently the one piece bathing suit is no longer “in.” This does not make Ursula happy. There are a multitude of sins between breast and crotch that I would just as soon remained hidden, thank you.
Ah. Apparently no one with DD breasts WEARS bikinis, which makes perfect sense, but was damned inconvenient when that was all they had available. The TWO–count ’em, TWO–XL tops I could find looked like I was trying to put a speedo on a grapefruit. It was visually arresting, but not in a good way. Particularly since the only remaining colors were in 70’s day-glo florals. Oy. Try to find an XXXL top? Surely you jest. Humans don’t come in that size!
Now, I have a fair number of friends who are…shall we say…well-endowed. My buddy Carlota can get instant service in the most packed bar in the universe merely by leaning forward. I would even go so far as to say that the majority of the women I know have industrial strength boobage. Is it just assumed that these women do not swim? Ever? I was mildly horrified to learn that one cannot get even a large-ish bra at Victoria’s Secret–it has to be special ordered–but this was just pure indignity. What if I was above a DD? This is not a weird size! Most of the women I know are this size! WHY DO YOU TORMENT US!? If you’re going to make huge breasts the ideal of society, bloody well give us clothes to put on ’em!
Anyway. Like most people in this situation, I found a pair of men’s swim trunks and the one top in the store that hid most of the flab from view, and resigned myself. There’s a reason I don’t swim often, and every few years, I remember why that is.