The Swimsuit Issue

It’s getting near to spring again and time for the yearly ritual inspection to see if I can get another year’s wear out of my swimsuit. The issue is perilous because I really don’t like shopping for one. The answer this year is no. I have to replace mine.

My current suit was a rushed choice off a deeply discounted rack of season closeouts. I was in Seattle with my grandson. He wanted to swim in the hotel pool and I had forgotten my suit. I grabbed the first one that wasn’t too absurd and was fortunate enough to have it fit. But five years of getting in and out of the hot tub have taken their toll on it. The fabric is getting little runs that promise trouble ahead. It is time.

I know exactly what I want: a well constructed one-piece swim suit in a substantial fabric that won’t cling or bag, designed simply with some super-structure support, and in a single colour such as flattering burgundy. A trip to the department store and on-line catalogs has convinced me that I am asking for the impossible.

Modern swimsuits appear to come in four types. There’s the revealing costume that is murder for anyone with bulges that can poke out through the cutouts or hang over the cleavage. I don’t even look at them. There’s the athletic costume, usually lycra, with sides that come up to the hip bone. It emphasizes—well—anatomy. I’m sure men must have the same problems with gravity, but theirs are not so obvious. I look as if my chest is about to bomb the floor. Then there’s the slimmer. It’s full of elastic bands stretched in every direction, all designed to hold in and thrust up. Trouble is that what is held in and thrust up has to go somewhere. When I try it on, I feel like the Pilsbury doughboy wrapped in an Ace bandage. Then there’s the camouflage costume, designed supposedly to conceal. These suits remind me of a Dorothy Lamour movie since they so often include a sarong design. More recent versions include a loose top over what look like bloomers. I rather imagine that all the extra material gets heavy and cold when it’s wet and probably very sandy if you are on a beach. I feel clunky and fat in them, not to mention self-conscious wondering if anyone else is thinking about the old Hope-Crosby movies.

I suppose the closest thing to what I want is called a tank suit. But even with these, the sides ride up to my waist, the back badly wants to be a thong, and they come in black or neon or with some large hibiscus or similar flower splashed across me. That all looks cute on someone tiny—I even looked good in them when I was young—but they are not what I need at this stage. I’m discouraged enough to think that the best choice might be two pieces and be damned to the slash of white skin across my middle. So what if it ripples? I’ll just get a sun tan. Everything looks better when it’s tanned.

I think what I really need is to go back to that department store in Seattle and grab another suit off their discount rack. In buying swimsuits, it appears that luck is about as good a predictor of comfort as agonizing over racks or on-line catalogs. Now, if only I could remember which shop it was.


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