The Bathing Suit

When I was a child, the bathing suit for the mature figure was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift; they did a good job. Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potato chip.

The mature woman has a choice - she can  either go up front to the maternity department and try on a floral  suit with a skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus who  escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can wander around every run  of the mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from  what amounts to a designer range of florescent rubber bands.

What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible  choice and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room.  The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of  the stretch material. The Lycra used in bathing costumes was  developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a  slingshot, which give the added bonus that if you manage to actually  lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as any  shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately  suffer whip lash.

I fought my way into the bathing suit, but  as I  twanged the shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror -  my boobs had disappeared! Eventually, I found one boob cowering  under my left armpit. It took a while to find the other. At last I  located it, flattened beside my seventh rib.

The problem is  that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is  meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed bump. I  realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full  view assessment.

The bathing suit fit all right, but  unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside  it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom, and  sides. I looked like a lump of play dough wearing undersized cling  wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had  come from, the prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the  curtain, 'Oh, there you are,' she said, admiring the bathing suit.

I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had  to show me.

I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me  look like a lump of masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave  the appearance of an oversized napkin in a serving ring.

I  struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and  came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and  having a rough day.

I tried on a black number with a mesh  midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.

I tried on  a bright pink suit with such a high cut leg I thought I would have  to wax my eyebrows to wear it .

Finally,  I found a suit that fit - a two-piece affair with a shorts style  bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and  bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a  successful outcome, I figured.

When I got home, I found a  label which read 'Material might become transparent in water.'

So, if you happen to be on the beach, or near any other body  of water this year, and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off  jeans and a t-shirt!