Suckage

I got a new bathing suit in the mail today. I ordered it online. I wanted the same suit that I had last year. The same suit that no longer fits me. It fit me beautifully two years ago. It was a bit snug last year. And this year? After a fifty-pound weight gain in two years, there is NO getting it on my body. So I ordered a new one online. I knew exactly what suit I wanted, so why torture myself by actually going to the mall and trying on suits? I don't need that kind of trauma. Therapy is too damn expensive.

The suit I bought is a Miraclesuit. It supposedly sucks you in. In all the right places. The problem is that there really in not enough suckage in this world to do the job properly. As a matter of fact, a black hole would have to descend from the far reaches of outer space and land on my body for there to be enough suckage to make me feel comfortable in a bathing suit. Alas, I have to have one since we are taking the kids to the ocean next month. So I forked over the money for the expensive sucking suit and ordered it online.

Let me tell you, there is no greater feeling in the world than pulling a bathing suit out of a manilla bubble envelope, declaring to the entire house “My God! This is freaking HUGE!”, and then barely being able to wedge your body into it. Yes, it looks like it would fit any and all major appliances in my kitchen. But instead, it fits me. My entire head—from chin to the tippy-top of my skull—would fit in one of the boob holders. Seriously. I think my 40-pound boxer could comfortably curl up in one of those cups and nap the day away. But I needed a bathing suit. So a bathing suit I bought.

Now I need to find a cover up. Yes, I bought a bathing suit. Yes, I intend to wear the bathing suit. But, in no uncertain terms, will anyone actually see me in the bathing suit. I will be covered at all times. You know...to protect against skin cancer. Yea...that's it. I don't want to risk exposing my alabaster skin to the sun's harmful UV rays.

Or something like that.