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From: "Edna Wakeham" <>
Subject: [GENHUMOR] Fw: BUYING A BATHING SUIT
Date: Sun, 1 Jun 2008 21:07:44 -0500


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"Growing old is not for sissies"........Bette Davis
BUYING A BATHING SUIT


When I was younger in the 1950s and 1960s, the bathing suit for the mature
figure was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered.
They were built to hold back and uplift, and they did a good job.

Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure
carved from a potato chip. The mature woman has a choice--she can either
go up front to the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a
skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus who 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
fluorescent 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 as any 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 in place, I gasped in horror--my
boobs had disappeared! Eventually, I found one boob 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 boobs spread across her 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
undersized cling wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the
prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, "Oh, there you
are," she said, admiring the bathing suit.

I replied that I wasn't so sure and 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 the appearance of an oversized napkin in a
serving ring.

I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and came
out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and having a rough
day. I tried on a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish
in mourning. I tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I
thought I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear them.

Finally, I found a suit that fit... a two-piece affair with a shorts style
bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and
bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful
outcome, I figured. When I got home, I found a label which read,
"Material might become transparent in water."

So, if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of water this
year and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut off jeans and a T-shirt!

You'd better be laughing or rolling on the floor by this time.

Life isn't about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain.
LGIE












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