Swimsuit Shopping

Back at the end of my first year of grad school, I discovered that I needed a new bathing suit. I wanted something inexpensive, yet quality, and something tasteful, falling happily in the middle between Puritanical and internet porn star on the modesty scale. Naturally, I turned to my good friend, roommate, and all-around fashion consultant, Elaine, to help me find such a suit. Need I state that she was ecstatic? Of course she was! I was doing something that was girlie, sociable, and involved clothing.

I don’t know exactly when I bought my last swimsuit. I might have been around age fourteen, which would be just over a decade ago. Judging by how different the styles are, that might well be an accurate estimate. When we arrived at Wal-Mart, I felt overwhelmed. Of course, that isn’t unusual for me, as I hate Wal-Mart fervently, but for once it wasn’t the raucous-voiced, harried mothers, or the wild children, or the apathetic cashiers, or even the prison-like décor that made me feel lightheaded. No, for once it was choices. When Elaine had asked what kind of suit I wanted, I had thought she meant did I prefer one piece or two, and perhaps did I have a color preference.

It was not that simple. A one-piece now comes with different cuts around the legs and arms, different straps around the shoulders. Some have ruffles that look skirt-like, and some look like summer dresses. But at least with a one-piece you know the top and bottom match—and if they don’t, you can blame the designer—“I don’t know why they don’t match. I thought it looked funny, but the suit was cheap.” With a two-piece, however, the matching is left up to you. Should the top and bottom be the same color, or should the bottom match the accent color in the top? If the bottom has ruffles then should the top as well, or is that too many ruffles? If the top cuts across the shoulder this way, then how should the bottom cut across the legs?

Eternally idealistic and hopeful, trusting that one day I will become a real woman, Elaine posed those questions to me, eliciting a series of responses something along these lines: “Huh? Meh? Er…  Sure. I guess. There’s a difference?”  But to her credit, she was phenomenally patient. She chose colors I wear a lot—red, blue, green. And since I was a fairly inexperienced shopper, she selected a variety of styles in both tops and bottoms.

There was one swimsuit top that seemed especially popular at Wal-mart that year. I don’t know what it’s called, and my description will doubtlessly fail to do it justice, but could I call myself a writer if I didn’t at least try? The top looks like a shirt with a fitted body that one pulls over one’s head. Then there are two strips of cloth that come up over the breasts and tie behind one’s neck. Doesn’t it sound simple, yet stylish?

Unfortunately, it was also impossible to operate. Pulling it on was one thing; keeping it up was another. When I pulled on the medium-sized top, it fit well in the torso, but the miniscule flaps of cloth that were designed to cover my bust were woefully inadequate. So I wriggled free and tried on a large. This size felt loose in the torso, but, surprisingly, was still inadequate to cover my breasts.

By this time I had tried on numerous bottoms, and Elaine was getting antsy waiting to see something on me. “Do you have anything to show me yet?” she called.

I glanced in the mirror. “Er, not yet.”

“Nothing?” I could hear it in her voice—what she really meant was, “You’ve been in there forever.  Now get your tush out here!”

“I’m having trouble finding a top that fits,” I explained.

           

There was a silence that followed wherein I could sense Elaine’s confusion.

“How does it not fit?” she asked.

“Well, it’s one of those that ties behind the neck, and it doesn’t really cover me.”

“What do you mean, it doesn’t cover you?”

I looked in the mirror. How should I explain this? Now remember, this whole conversation is being yelled back and forth through a dressing room door in the middle of the busiest place on earth. Would it be most effective to call back, “I’ve seen strippers with more coverage?” Or should I take a more tactful approach and explain that “there is a disproportionate flesh to fabric ratio resulting in a deficiency of fabric and an overabundance of flesh,” in case there are children around?

“Hold on.” I pulled the strips of cloth behind my neck and tied them loosely, then tried to adjust the pieces of fabric, hoping to magically find some support. I tightened the strips, then adjusted again, tightened, then adjusted. This wasn’t helping. I tried tying the straps differently, but that didn’t help either. No matter how I tied the straps, they were determined not to stay put. Either this was a top designed for women without breasts, or a top designed for a topless beach.

“Have you found anything now?” Elaine called.

“Uh, well…” I glanced around and grabbed a sporty one-piece, blue and black, that reminded me of a porpoise. I pulled it on and checked in the mirror. Yes, everything was covered that needed covering, and nothing looked weird or out of place. There were no confusing straps, and it didn’t threaten to fall off if I did anything extreme like take a deep breath. “Yeah, I think so.”

I opened the dressing room door. Elaine’s critical eye scanned me from top to bottom, slightly perplexed but not displeased.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I was now aware of how awkward I must look wearing a swimsuit and white ankle socks.

“Which top didn’t fit?” I showed her both the medium and large. “Now how didn’t they fit?”

“They didn’t cover me,” I said.

“Ok, I need a little more explanation…”

“This,” I said, grasping the flap that was intended to cover my breast, “isn’t large enough.”

The dressing room attendant, a grey-haired woman in her late fifties, smirked.

“Are you saying it showed a little cleavage, or…”

“It showed more than cleavage,” I assured her, and the attendant more than smirked. 

Elaine looked skeptical. I opened my mouth to say, “It fits like pasties! For $14 I expect more fabric than that,” but I thought better of it. The difference between Brittany at 24 and Brittany at any age before 24 was a new-found ability to keep my foot from cramming itself down my throat. Generally.

I went with the one-piece, although Elaine thought we should try Target and possibly Kohl's first. But I was exhausted. Two swimsuits I tried on didn’t want to come off; I got tangled in one like a diver in the grasp of an octopus; and then there was the top I’ve covered in so much detail, the one that promised a grand “costume malfunction” to rival the infamous one by Ms. Jackson and Mr. Timberlake. And a week later when I wore the one-piece in the Atlantic, I knew I had made the right decision. I had a grand time splashing around through the waves knowing everything was secure. As I sat on the sand playing with my bucket and spade, the ocean lapping at my castle turrets, I smiled as I watched three other ladies who continually stopped to reattach or re-tie their suits. Once again I escaped being a victim of fashion—and for once I did it while looking quite chic.