Nothing that I have ordered online in the last few weeks has shipped yet, including hair dye, silicone baking cups and two adorable bathing suits I bought for my EllaBellaBean for her Easter basket. To clarify, only the bathing suits are for Ella. Her big, adorable, bald head has no need for dye and the silicone baking cups are for my egg muffins because I am sick to death of spraying my muffin tin and the surrounding 10-foot perimeter of my kitchen with non-stick spray, only to discover my muffins adhered to the tin like cement and my kitchen floor transformed into a slip and slide.
I’m not quite sure what I have in my house that I can stick in EllaBellaBean’s basket as a substitute as pickings are slim around my house.
You may have heard my fridge yell something like THAT’S THE ONLY THING THAT’S SLIM AROUND HERE and if my fridge had kneecaps, you’d find them somewhere in the vicinity of my front stoop at the moment but my fridge has no kneecaps and that is yet one more issue that I will have to take up with the Big Guy in the Sky should we ever meet.
Twelve years ago, when I first started to blog, I wrote about shopping for underwear and a bathing suit and other than the fact that I no longer get my period, not much has changed. The psychological trauma remains the same although the geography has changed because now, I’m more apt to buy 172 suits online to try on in the privacy of my bedroom only to wind up returning every single one and then eating my emotions via an entire bag of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. I’m in much better physical shape now than I was back then, fridge kneecaps notwithstanding, but I still consider buying a bathing suit to be slightly more painful than childbirth.
Below is a copy/paste of that post. Can anyone else relate?
As I was sorting through 638 loads of laundry today, it occurred to me that I am in desperate need of underwear. Every single pair I own has morphed into period underwear and I have absolutely nothing suitable in the event of a car accident.
I do have pretty underwear I bought eons ago when I was dating – I mistook one for a doily the other day and used it under a candle on my window sill. Just for shits and giggles because I was alone in the house but mostly because I’m a masochist, I thought I’d see if they still fit me. I wrestled them over my thighs where access any higher was immediately blocked by my hips, hips that in no way resemble the hips I had when I first purchased this underwear. They then became uncomfortably bunched up and refused any efforts on my part to un-bunch. I contorted myself into positions not meant for the human body and managed to inch the panties over my hips to rest somewhere in the region of my lower waist although it’s been so long since I’ve actually seen my lower waist that I’m not entirely sure I was anywhere near it.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw what appeared to be my face sitting atop a flesh-colored, jumbo-sized sleeping bag hogtied with twine. I looked for the label warning CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE, MAY EXPLODE. I started to get a little dizzy and realized that if I didn’t extricate myself from the underwear as soon as possible, my circulation would be forever jeopardized and I’d find myself up close and personal with an emergency room doctor half my age who wouldn’t give me morphine no matter how much I’d beg for it.
I bent forward to start the horrific ordeal of wrenching the panties back down from whence they came but the panties became instantly lodged in a place known only as the Final Frontier and that was that.
I have decided to make the trek into retail hell and purchase some new underwear. And while I’m at it, I figure I’ll get a bathing suit at the same time and blow all my money and every shred of dignity I have at the same time because I am nothing if not efficient.
And I will hold my breath, cross every appendage I have, knock on every piece of wood in this house, fall to my knees and pray that this time will not be like last time, to wit:
9:45 a.m.: Dress in baggy shorts and baggy t-shirt and flip flops for easy-on, easy-off access.
9:50: Stare at my reflection in the mirror and tell myself that I am a brave, strong, confident woman who survived a divorce, two c-sections and the eighties, a woman who deserves new underwear and a decent bathing suit, who has earned new underwear and a decent bathing suit, dammit, and nothing on the face of this planet is going to stop me from getting said underwear and bathing suit.
10:00: Jump in the car, full of enthusiasm and optimism. The world is my oyster!
10:01: Remember I hate oysters. Fiddle with radio stations, become appalled at what is considered an “oldie” and shout along with AC/DC to Shook Me All Night Long.
10:15: Arrive at the mall and find a parking space right in front of the entrance. Consider it a good omen and celebrate by buying a muffin.
10:20: Walk into the department store and head directly to the lingerie department. No time to gawk at the purses and shoes. I’m on a mission. I am resolute. I am determined. I am woman, hear me roar. ROAR.
10:22: Arrive in the lingerie department and feel every inch of my body try to hide from every other inch of my body as I am forced to wade into a sea of waif-like teens and women swarming around the rainbow assortment of thongs and bikini underwear. Make a mental note to write a letter of complaint to management detailing my displeasure at having to navigate through the Only in My Dreams section to get the Reality Sucks section.
10:23: Arrive at the Reality Sucks section and stare at my choices of white or beige. Make a mental addendum to my letter of complaint to insist that those of us who weigh more than our IQ deserve colors of fuchsia, cyan and lemongrass too. Decide it’s not worth getting upset about and ruining my mood since I’m saving that for when I get to the bathing suit section. Figure that my ass is large enough without calling undue attention to itself, grab two packages of basic beige period-to-be panties, sized NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS and make my way to the register.
10:30: Head over to the swimsuit section. Pop a couple of Tylenol as a precaution. Pop another one, just in case.
10:45: Find a handful of suits with some potential and head for the fitting room with visions of that perfect, black, slimming, flattering bathing suit at half price. Chat with the fitting room attendant.
10:49: Wrestle the first suit on and discover it covers less than 30% of the territory it needs to cover so that I don’t get arrested for indecent exposure. Look with trepidation at the other suits waiting patiently on the hooks. Imagine that they are mocking me.
11:10: Exit the dressing room, slightly perspiring and a bit concerned, and hand the rejected suits to the attendant. Dive back into the racks again, choosing twenty possibles. Mumble some nonsense to the attendant and re-enter the dressing room, still optimistic that I’ll find a good suit in a dark color at 20% off.
11:30: Tap, knock and scrape the mirror, convinced there is something wrong with it.
11:33: Look up to see what kind of lighting makes my skin look like playdough that’s been left out in the sun for four years.
11:35: Nearly asphyxiate myself on a suit while trying to wrestle it over my head.
12:05: Emerge from the fitting room, frustrated, a sheen of sweat on my face. Can’t find the attendant, toss the suits onto the discard rack, drag myself back onto the floor area and pick out any suit, any color, any size at whatever price in the hopes that if I throw a million darts, one is bound to hit a target.
12:15: Suck in my stomach and ponder the physiological ramifications when it doesn’t move.
12:20: Lose my balance while trying to fit my leg into the 79th suit, smash my head against the hook on the wall, briefly lose consciousness and awake to find my feet inexplicably entangled in my bra. Consider calling for help.
12:25: Undergo a brief out-of-body experience. Wow.
12:37: Silently cry within the confines of my dressing room and wax philosophical on the meaning of life for someone who is 5’2″, busty, short-waisted, prematurely gray, broad-shouldered with small, wide feet. Declare myself a freak of nature and make a mental note to look up the nearest leper colony.
1:20: Emit a blood-curdling scream, wrench the door to the fitting room open and then rip it off its hinges when it swings back and hits me in the face. Throw the suits at the attendant now cowering in a corner, laugh maniacally and spew vulgarities at anyone within earshot. Stare down anyone in my way and march my battered, weary, sweat-soaked self out of there with as much dignity as a 5’2″, busty, gray-haired, short-waisted, broad-shouldered, small-footed freak of nature can.
But this time it’s going to be different. This time, I’m going to park 300 yards from the entrance and skip the muffin and that will make all the difference in the world.
Hope springs eternal.