I love going to my local YMCA. The intimidation I usually feel at other gyms doesn’t exist at the Y. Whenever I’m there, I’m surrounded by old ladies trying to do beginner’s pilates, middle-aged guys panting on the stair masters and little kids staring off into space during karate classes. But the best part is the pool.
When I first got a tour of the place from the perky front desk attendant, I was immediately sold by the huge pool that would keep me cool during the brutally hot Toronto summers.
But when the disgusting heatwave arrived, I stayed on dry land. Yes, even though I had access to a refreshing swim everyday, I stayed in my boiling, un-air conditioned apartment that was so revolting I put my sheets and pillow cases in the freezer for a few hours before I went to sleep. You see, when I got my membership I forgot that a few years back I lost the most perfect bathing suit on the planet. And the only one I owned.
Big Red was a sporty red one piece I bought 12 years ago and no matter how much weight I gained, it fit me like a glove and looked brand new. It was like The Sisterhood of the Travelling Bathing Suit! So, why did I prefer to roast like a chicken instead of getting a new suit? Because there’s something far worse than being so hot you’re sweating behind your knees: bathing suit shopping.
Music cue: the theme to John Carpenter’s Halloween.
Every time I have shopped for a bathing suit, it’s been a nightmare. I can’t believe a tiny piece of fabric could cause so much misery. I highly doubt any guy has shuddered at the thought of buying swim trunks because the men’s section is ⅛ the size of the women’s. I get dizzy when I walk into the women’s swimwear section and see the racks jammed with every colour, shape and material on Earth. How do you know which items are part of the mix ‘n’ match sale? Which patterns are cultural appropriation? Why in hell would anyone want a bikini made of mohair? Why?!
After hours of deciding which items I should try on, I always end up in a changeroom that’s a claustrophobic hellhole. I have dealt with doors that creaked so loudly they belonged in a haunted house from Scooby-Doo, smashed my elbows into the walls as I struggled to put on a halter top and not once has there been a mirror INSIDE of the changeroom. I’ve always had to step out and look at myself in the public mirror in the changeroom area, and this usually happened on a day when I accidentally wore granny panties instead of a thong underneath the bathing suit I was trying on. I looked like I was wearing a diaper. And there’s always a weird 12-year-old boy waiting for his mom or a creepy old guy waiting for his wife when I’m in front of the public mirror. The last time I shopped for a swimsuit, I got locked out of my change room and waited in the cold for what seemed like an eternity.
Now, when I wear a bathing suit, I want to be covered. If I had my way, I would wear one of those old-timey bathing suits from the 1920s, but I also don’t want to wear so much fabric it feels like I’m in a wet blanket when I’m swimming. One pieces are usually my go-to, but they’re usually full of hideous colours, frills and tummy tamers. I mean, I want to cover up, but I want to look somewhat decent. After getting flustered and frustrated with the one-pieces, I’ll reluctantly move on to the bikinis and if there isn’t a problem with the top, there will be a problem with the bottom.
The abuse your knockers will go through while trying on bikini tops is awful. I’ve tried on tops that have squished them so close together, I worried I wouldn’t be able to separate them again. One top hoisted my cans so high it’s a miracle I didn’t suffocate. And some tops provided no support whatsoever. Oh, and I want thick, industrial strength straps to keep the girls in place, not flimsy decorative straps that are all the rage. When it comes to bikini bottoms, the Holy Grail is the boy short. These are a Godsend because they not only cover the enormous cafe-au-lait birthmark on my butt, but also, the majority of my butt, like a pair of shorts. But over the years this tried-and-true staple has become almost as skimpy as a thong. Even the high waisted or “full coverage” bottoms leave little to the imagination.
I seriously think bathing suit shopping could be used as a form of torture. The last time I went bathing suit shopping, I tried stuff on for almost five hours. My stomach was eating itself, nothing fit and that awkward kid was still in the hallway. Hell, I would’ve confessed to anything at that point. I wanted to give up so badly on that day 12 years ago, but even though I was going through hell, I kept going. In a huge pile of yet-to-be-tried-ons, Big Red shone bright. Reluctantly, I tried her on and it was like she’d been made for me. The girls were supported and I didn’t have cyclops cleavage! My butt was covered so well you’d never know that beneath it was a trip to sag city!
And now Big Red’s gone!
This summer has been the hottest on record and I give up. My fight against the bathing suit monster has come to an end, and I’ve been left with no choice but to embark on a journey to find this ridiculously complicated garment.
Maybe swimming and I just aren’t meant to be. Maybe I’m only meant to be a toe dipper or the person who stays with everyone’s stuff at the beach so it doesn’t get stolen, but I’m going to fight as hard as I can to cool off.
Even if I do find swimwear that’s half as good as Big Red, there’s going to be a new nightmare to deal with: the awkward boys and creepy old guys swimming next to me.
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