There's not a woman alive who does not understand the soul-shredding aspects of bathing suit shopping, but let me tell you, I took it to a whole. new. level. today: I went bathing suit shopping at Wal-Mart. It's a wonder I got out of there alive.
Both Thing 1 and Thing 2 wanted to get new bathing suits, and it was their idea to try Wal-Mart first. As they browsed around and picked up stuff to try on, like a FOOL I took a look at the "grandma" bathing suit section and found a few items that might be acceptable for me. (There are two parts to the bathing suit department at any store, the "young" section and the "grandma" section. The "young section" is strictly for looks, not practicality. The bathing suits there are made of 14 square centimeters of fabric and the wearer needs to stand up at all times, preferably perfectly still. The "grandma" section has bathing suits made of huge swathes of black fabric, and can double as barbeque covers. The wearer can rope steers, pole vault and wrestle alligators without revealing one extra inch of doughy white flesh to the world. )
I tried on the suits, which is a task only for the stout of heart and strong of character at the best of times, and not to be undertaken after a rather large dinner of a crispy chicken Caesar salad wrap, fries and two diet Cokes. (The garlic in the Caesar salad wrap made me thirsty!) Or in a Wal-mart.
I will spare you the gruesome details, but holy schnickies, the lighting in those fitting rooms would make you swear off ever leaving the house again, if only as a public service. How did I not notice that I have varicose veins and barnacles?
I put all of my "grandma" selections back on the rack, and decided to try again another day, at another store. Preferably one that sells three-piece bathing suits, and lights their fitting rooms with candles.