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[MOL] Buying a bathing suit( girls only)



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Posted by nubee on May 15, 1999 at 21:55:23:


Subject: buying a bathing suit

Oh ladies - what those of us who are "mature" go through. This ought to
bring a laugh or two.


I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and
humiliation known as buying a bathing suit.

When I was a child in the 1950s there were bathing suits for a woman 
with a mature figure. They were -- boned, trussed and reinforced, not
so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and
they did a damn good job.

Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with
a figure chipped from marble.

The mature woman has a choice-she can either go to the maternity
department and try on a floral costume with a skirt, coming away looking
like a hippopotamus escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can wander
around every run of the mill department store trying to make a sensible
choice from what
amounts to a designer range of floral rubber bands.

What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and
entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. 

The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the
stretch material. 

The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to
launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that
if
you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from
shark attacks.

The reason for this is that a shark taking a swipe at your passing
midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.

I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder
strap into place I gasped in horror-my bosom had disappeared. Eventually
I found one bosom cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find
the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib.

The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The
mature woman is meant to wear her bosom spread across the chest like a
speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to
take a full view assessment.

The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those
bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out
rebelliously from top, bottom and sides. I looked like a lump of
play-dough wearing undersize cling wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the
prepubescent salesgirl popped her head through the curtains "Oh, How are
YOU doing?!" she said, seeming to admire the bathing suit. I asked what
else she had to show me.

I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of
masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave me the look of a napkin
in a serviette ring.

I struggled into a leopard skin suit with a ragged frill and came
out looking like Tarzan's Jane on a bad day.

I tried a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish in
mourning.

I tried on a bright pink with such a high cut leg I thought I would
have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.

Finally I found a costume that fitted. A two piece affair with
shorts-style bottoms and a halter top. It was cheap, comfortable and
bulge-friendly, so I bought it. 

When I got home I read the label which said, "Material may become
transparent in water," but I'm determined to wear it anyway.

I just have to learn to do the breaststroke in the sand.
Title: Buying a bathing suit( girls only)

Buying a bathing suit( girls only)


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Posted by nubee on May 15, 1999 at 21:55:23:


Subject: buying a bathing suit

Oh ladies - what those of us who are "mature" go through. This ought to
bring a laugh or two.


I have just been through the annual pilgrimage of torture and
humiliation known as buying a bathing suit.

When I was a child in the 1950s there were bathing suits for a woman
with a mature figure. They were -- boned, trussed and reinforced, not
so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift and
they did a damn good job.

Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with
a figure chipped from marble.

The mature woman has a choice-she can either go to the maternity
department and try on a floral costume with a skirt, coming away looking
like a hippopotamus escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can wander
around every run of the mill department store trying to make a sensible
choice from what
amounts to a designer range of floral rubber bands.

What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and
entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room.

The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the
stretch material.

The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to
launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that if
you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from
shark attacks.

The reason for this is that a shark taking a swipe at your passing
midriff would immediately suffer whiplash.

I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder
strap into place I gasped in horror-my bosom had disappeared. Eventually
I found one bosom cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find
the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib.

The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The
mature woman is meant to wear her bosom spread across the chest like a
speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to
take a full view assessment.

The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those
bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out
rebelliously from top, bottom and sides. I looked like a lump of
play-dough wearing undersize cling wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the
prepubescent salesgirl popped her head through the curtains "Oh, How are
YOU doing?!" she said, seeming to admire the bathing suit. I asked what
else she had to show me.

I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of
masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave me the look of a napkin
in a serviette ring.

I struggled into a leopard skin suit with a ragged frill and came
out looking like Tarzan's Jane on a bad day.

I tried a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish in
mourning.

I tried on a bright pink with such a high cut leg I thought I would
have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.

Finally I found a costume that fitted. A two piece affair with
shorts-style bottoms and a halter top. It was cheap, comfortable and
bulge-friendly, so I bought it.

When I got home I read the label which said, "Material may become
transparent in water," but I'm determined to wear it anyway.

I just have to learn to do the breaststroke in the sand.


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