Operation Bathing Suit

It is the email subject line that stops my heart like clockwork every year: “Pool Opens This Weekend.”

Wasn’t it just New Year’s Day two minutes ago?

Remember New Year’s? That day nearly half a year earlier when we swore we’d be more prepared for things like Tax day, Teacher Appreciation Week, and bathing suit season?

Oh God. I am so not bathing suit ready.

My kids are already in their swimsuits, goggles on, buckled into the car, and eagerly waiting for me to take them to the pool.

I’d rather eat raw sewage.

For the average woman, there is so much to consider when preparing to don the Lycra in public for the first time each season.

For starters, does the bathing suit from last season even fit anymore? And if not, is it because I grew or because the Lycra finally gave out?

If I’m lucky and the Lycra has not given up the holy ghost over the winter, how likely is it that it still fits? Pound for pound, I haven’t changed that much, but gravity definitely appears to be winning and the Lycra can only do so much.

Let’s be generous and say the suit still fits. (Because frankly, we could write a whole book about the soul-killing experience that is bathing suit shopping.)

There is still much to do.

The amount of bushwhacking that is required at the start of swimsuit season is always startling. Wait. What’s that in the middle of my thigh? Is it? No. No way. That can’t be a pubic hair. If that is a pube, then the general diameter of my lady garden is now officially the size of a dinner plate charger.

It will take me the better part of an evening to trim my foundation shrubbery to the point where I can shoehorn it into last-year’s Lycra. I prefer to do this myself. I have an entire arsenal of products to assist me and it’s much more affordable and way less humiliating than paying someone in a salon to tame the beast.

Let’s move South, shall we. The legs. Oh dear God, those glowing ​white bristly logs protruding from the Lycra. This is going to require playing zone defense. Maybe I’ll shave the calves and shins one night, and the knees and thighs another. You know it’s summer when you treat yourself to a new razor blade. (Pathetic.)

And while we’re shaving, don’t forget the toes.

Speaking of which, DAY-YAM! Is there anything as frightening as winter feet? Mine look like hooves right now. I’m wondering if I should get a pedicure or just have horseshoes nailed to the bottoms. Maybe I’ll just buy a pair of those water shoes all the kids wear at the beach and call it a day.

Or maybe people will be so busy gawking at the razor burn on my thighs that they won’t notice my hooves.

Hey, a girl can dream.

 

Leslie Marinelli is a writer, wife, mother of three, toilet humor aficionada, and transplanted Pittsburgher trapped in the suburbs of Atlanta. She’s a weekly columnist and the Editor-in-Chief of In The Powder Room, as well as the creative force behind the award winning blog, The Bearded Iris: A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All. Leslie enjoys writing in the third person as much as she likes finding hair in her food and getting episiotomies. You can connect with her on , , and as . This post was originally published on In the Powder Room and was republished with permission.