Stupid Swimsuit Anyway

It’s the newest style on the beach, but bodies still matter.

Photo by Mor Shani on Unsplash

Yeah, that’s not me in the swimsuit. I wish. I just put that there to make you look. It’s clickbait. I’m not ashamed, you can just go ahead and enjoy the pretty picture, though, and then read my piece. If I put one of me up, you’ll kindly and respectively look elsewhere if you aren’t laughing your ass off.

My body might have looked uh, kind of like that about 40 years ago, for a year or two. That’s about all any women get of looking like that unless they are dedicated gym rats. After 30 we start getting moles, cellulite and all kinds of uglies messing things up. It doesn’t help if we put on a little weight — I don’t know — 40 or 50 pounds, you know…evolution. Or something.

Anyway, made you look.

This piece really is about swimming and beaches though. So, it sort of relates.

I was so excited when I first saw the new-style swimsuits with long sleeves and mid-thigh reasonable shorts, although spandexy. All the better, I thought, that tight fabric would just hold fallen and flabby, or flappy, in the case of arms, tight like a compression suit.

Things will be much more comfortable at the beach, I believed. No more dimply ass-cheeks hanging out, no more upper arms waving in the breeze.

The first, most obvious advantage is protection from the sun, and with all the suspicious and plain ole pre-cancerous things on my skin, I need all the help I can get.

By the way, if you have suspicious moles and such, go to Florida and see a dermatologist there. They’ve seen every type of skin cancer more than once and just routinely whack off the scary parts. Talk about an in-demand profession in the tropics! Trouble is, there’s a dermatologist on almost every corner. Well, not really every corner, but there’s a lot of them.

Anyway, whew, I digress… No, I don’t digress, I lose my focus, my train of thought, my mind. A mind is a terrible thing to lose.

I’ve been outside three or four times since I’ve started this story to supervise my grandson and his girlfriend re-potting the big ferns that hang under my porch. Every time I come back in, I mess it up.