Cue horrifying descent into self-loathing.
I started strong, confident. "Not everyone looks like Alessandra Ambrosio in a stupid two-piece. I'll be fine." I spent some time doing research online. I already have this super nice, fancy, cute suit from last year, so I kind of just need fillers. So I wanted cheap. Cute, but cheap.
I briefly thought about enlisting some moral support in the form of a shopping buddy. But, unlike the skinny jeans escapade, this was one trip I had to take alone. Like a warrior...or a wolf...or a fat person shopping for a bikini. (Two things NOT to do prior to swimsuit shopping, BTW, include watching America's Next Top Model for two hours and eating. Both of which I managed to do.)
I strolled through the suits at Target. Surprisingly cute. Wonderfully inexpensive. I grab like 18 combinations. The fitting room attendants at Target are the worst. They actually LOOK OVER the stuff before you take it into the room. Then they make you stand there, while others line up behind you, and sort through all your giant suits to pick out six items. "Here, leave the other tents, er, I mean suits, on this counter so everyone else can judge you."
I grab six items. Turns out, I was too confident about my butt and not confident enough about my top. Everything was the wrong size. See, the way I figured this out was that the bottoms were way too small and somehow seemed to disappear into my skin. I came bursting out the tops in a surprisingly boobilicious fashion (thanks to my friend Kelly for inventing that term, BTW).
So, I had to pull on my jeans, shirt, sweater, giant coat and get back out on the floor. I started to walk back out onto the battlefield and the fitting room attendant was all "WHAT ABOUT THESE?!" and she starts waving the other suits in the air. "I'll be right back, Satan, sheesh."
I find some better sizes, making VERY sure to not exceed the 6 item limit. Go back in the
I managed to find a cute suit, though. I could squint just hard enough and promise myself just earnestly enough that I would work out constantly to believe it was the best option. I had also hung my coat on the rear-view mirror to cover it up. Whatever, I got it. Is it too late to start thinking about becoming anorexic or bringing back the 1920s style of swimwear? Ugh, both seem quite impossible, given my love of food and everyone else's love of showing/seeing some skin.
I have less than a month to get in better swimsuit-shape. I ventured out to an incredibly hard Turbo Kick class tonight and with every squat, every kick, every lunge, I thought "Rear View Mirror. Rear View Mirror. Rear View Mirror." In the meantime, I've hung my suit in my bathroom so I see it everyday and will be reminded to put down that whoopie pie and shove some carrots into my talk hole.