It Simply Doesn’t Suit You

[picapp align=”center” wrap=”false” link=”term=beach&iid=274181″ src=”0270/6d69a235-9c74-463e-a07f-3ab68d5c7449.jpg?adImageId=12693232&imageId=274181″ width=”500″ height=”333″ /]

This morning in the bathroom, in that brief moment between when I put down the mint dental flosser and picked up the shaving brush, my wife uttered a statement that no man ever wants to hear.

I have to get a new swimsuit.

I pretended it didn’t register much the same way one tries to block out the news of an impending root canal or a digital rectal exam. But it was out there now and I know full well what it means.

It means an agonizing, fruitless pursuit of an almost unattainable prize which can easily spread across several times zones, if not a full continent.

Gone are the days when a swimsuit, which beckoned adoringly from a perky-nippled mannequin in a sunny storefront window, could be had right off the rack. Once the female body has been subjected to the unavoidable exactitudes of Newtonian physics there are no more easy swimsuit decisions. The swimsuit now becomes a strategic garment, employed more for what it can cover up than what it will expose.

[picapp align=”left” wrap=”true” link=”term=man%27s+bathing+suit&iid=190276″ src=”0186/03841eab-d225-48a6-9624-445d13e521ba.jpg?adImageId=12693318&imageId=190276″ width=”234″ height=”352″ /]   Men don’t have this problem. God bless us. We’re such elementally deluded creatures. No matter how badly our bodies crumble, no matter how much we have come to resemble a living Herman cartoon, when it comes to a bathing suit, we feel free to simply grab and go. We have convinced ourselves that we can easily cut the beachfront fashion muster whether it be in a pair of hopelessly youthful surfer shorts or a testicular-gathering Speedo. Truth be told (and much to the chagrin of women everywhere) men can walk down the beach in a wooden barrel with two shoulder straps and generally feel pretty good about themselves.

There’s a famous incident in my marriage surrounding the purchase of a swimsuit. Many years ago, in the full flower of our dimpled youth, my wife and I were in a boutique where I selected for her a snappy little number with the approximate square footage of a produce sticker. She took the suit, entered the change room and then after what seemed like an hour plaintively called for my help. I ended up spending about twenty minutes in there trying to decipher the complex series of geometric folds, cross-overs and step-intos that would allow this remnant to be worn in public. I don’t know what the store clerk thought we were doing behind that door but we bought the swimsuit in any event. And, I must say, it looked great. We went on vacation shortly after that and I remember feeling a distinct sense of masculine territorial pride when I spotted a couple of guys taking surreptitious photographs of my wife whilst she lay baking in the full glory of her new swimsuit under a cloudless Bahamian sky.

But we flash forward and now there are issues… issues which no man can intelligently, candidly acknowledge. You may go to a hundred stores and she may try on a thousand swimsuits, all of which you may earnestly claim look perfectly fine..and none of them will satisfy. In fact, the more praise you heap upon any given garment, the more your sincerity will be called into question. The woman may be desperate, but she’s not stupid. She knows you just want to get out of there. You’re like Dustin Hoffman in the dental chair during that scene in the movie Marathon Man because you’ll say anything to lessen the pain. So it’s a lose / lose situation. She’s not happy. You’re not happy. You don’t know what it would take, swimsuit-wise, to make her happy…and, by this time, she probably doesn’t know either.

That’s why the nude beach just makes so much sense. I can make that work with a couple of Oreos and a fair-sized thermos.


2 Responses to “It Simply Doesn’t Suit You”

  1. A great slice of life and wonderful writing.

  2. I think I’ll just avoid the whole issue/shopping expedition entirely… “sorry hon, I gotta work on some tasks on the ‘honey-do’ list, need to get some of those done!”. 🙂

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