When you are pregnant, or contemplating pregnancy, people who are already parents will blab on and on and on about the magnitude of love you will have for your children.
It sounds all cupcakes and puppies and gag.
But then you have a baby.
Oh. My. God. That. (lopsided head, red, wrinkly, squinty-eyed) Beautiful. Creature.
Bring on the cupcakes, puppies, and barf bag.
It took me about 3 hours to be so severely in love with Mac, I could barely think straight. Some of that could have been the gawdawful hemorrhoids or the lack of food or sleep but I’m still sticking with deliriously head over heels in love.
Fortunately for the kid (ankle bitter, destroyer of precious K-cups and dishwasher Houdini) that feeling doesn’t go away.
So devoted and in love with your child you are, you will do nearly anything – anything – to make sure they are safe, and happy, and healthy.
Which is exactly how my ego just took another massive blow last Friday.
See, we’re going to the beach in a few weeks. Yeah. Beach. Smack in the middle of summer. I burn in 2 seconds. I hate hot weather. I don’t particularly love sand. It’s going to be magical.
But we are going. And damnit we are going to enjoy ourselves! Even if it requires a heat stroke or a melanoma on my part.
And since the kid has come on the scene, I can no longer hide in air-conditioned comfort sporting a big old kaftan and straw hat.
I need a bathing suit.
I haven’t purchased a bathing suit since September of 2006.
And there’s a reason for that: I find it’s like paying to take a severe beating.
See, I’m shaped like a large apple, topped with breasts the size of mid-season watermelon. The perfect suit has to be constructed of industrial-grade slimming spandex, with just the right amount of coverage, ruching and other optical illusions or distractions, plus about 10 yards of cable girders to keep me from looking like Ursula from the Little Mermaid. Oh, and I’m short.
So, it’s not like I can just run into Target and snatch up a couple of adorable side-tie bikini bottoms. What I require is a state of the art, several hundred-dollar suit that I can stuff myself into.
Even then, I’ll still look like a sausage and be uncomfortable as hell, but at least I’ll get to go swimming with my kid.
I had been putting off the swimsuit purchase until the last possible minute. I honestly would rather skip the trip than have to drop so much coin on such a ridiculously priced, impractical garment.
But last Friday, I had an email from Land’s End hit my in-box. . .40% off Swimwear plus free shipping. I supposed it wasn’t going to get much better than that. I owed it to Huggy Bear.
I have never purchased a suit from Land’s End before. I perused their selection while Chris and Mac played on the living room floor. I found two suitable candidates – they have a LOT of options!
I casually mentioned to Chris I might purchase a swimsuit.
“Maybe you should try one on first?” He asked gingerly.
“Well, it’s not like I can just go to Walmart and buy one.” I snapped back. “I have to order one.”
And then I examined the size charts.
It looked like something from one of my college chemistry classes I never fully grasped.
He was right. I couldn’t half ass this.
So basically I quarter-assed it.
I went to the basement and found a measuring tape. Not my good measuring tape – just the one that was most convenient. I took the required measurements – over my fully clothed body mind you – wrong wrong wrong. Shook my head in disbelief and took them again.
Jesus, I need to diet. Or just die.
Measurements written down in my super secret journal, aka liquor store receipt, I went back to the size charts. I still had a hard time making heads or tails of them.
So I figured I’d start looking for a match to my biggest measurement first. I scanned the Regulars. . .the Petites. . .I was scrolling impatiently when I saw something close to my bust size.
In the PLUS sized chart!!!!!!
Look, when I was in 5th grade, I wore Pretty Plus-sized pants from Sears because I had muscular legs. . .That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! But heretofore, I’ve never had to actually purchase (or pay extra) for a garment with a W behind the size number).
But sure enough, in MacBook Pro digital display black and white was my bust measurement in the plus sized chart. Ouch.
I gulp. And my left eyelid twitches a little bit. . .
Chris and Mac are laughing hysterically at one another rolling around on the floor making fake flatulence noises and building block towers.
If I need a W, I need a W. It’s worth the smile on this kid’s face while you’re at the pool. It’s just a number. . .PLUS a LETTER!!
I desperately scan the charts again.
The only swim suit that’s going to cover the 8 lb. bowling balls I call my breasts comes with a W behind it.
Then of course, there’s nothing exactly right for a torso or waist or hip measurement. GAH!
I try to flash pictures of that voluptuous, smokin’ hot red-headed chick from Mad Men in my head. I’m sure she has trouble finding the right kind of bathing suit. It’s just a number I tell myself.
Besides, it’s not about you anymore.
No one will be looking at you.
Everything for the kid. He doesn’t care if your swimsuit is a 16W and sags in the ass because your boobs are a 16W but your ass is a 14 regular and your torso is a 14 petite.
The tag doesn’t matter. . .
All that matters is we have fun. Everyday.
I just hope sometime on this vacation between heat stoke and sun poisoning. . .I’ll lose a few pounds. .
Laughing my ass off.