Bather Blues

It’s taken me forty years to figure out why older women wear last decade’s bathing suits: it’s because that’s their only choice. When I left school, I started working at a department store and noticed that many of our “older” female clients shared similar shopping habits, which I now find relatable.

1. For one, they always BELIEVED they were at least a size smaller
2. They could swear the sizes had changed since last season, especially metric sizes, definitely not the same as the old inches.
3. There was something fishy about the mirrors
4. The lighting was ghastly; I had to see the item in daylight, at home, of course
5. They had no clue what their bust sizes were when buying lingerie
6. Their husbands knew EXACTLY how much of a “handful” his "secretary/niece” was, who he was buying Christmas presents for, and I could swear he’d never been in a Church either.
7. They had to have lounge wear when buying swimwear, especially when it was Gottex.
8. When last had we checked the tape measure, are we certain it’s in centimetres and not inches?
9. They bought nothing, nonchalantly saying, “Oh, they’ll just wear last year’s swimsuit or buy one in Mauritius in September,” and flounced off to have another gin-and-tonic lunch with bubbles for dessert.
10. As they slinked off, we tried one last time, but they waved us off with “darling, the colours just don’t work for me. I have a summer or winter or whatever complexion. Now, who could argue with that?”
     

Forty years later, I know exactly how they felt. This realization has been creeping up on me for at least 2 years, but, true to type, I gritted my teeth and soldiered on until this afternoon, when reality bit. In a week, we’re off to Vietnam, and as you know, it’s hot in that neck of the woods, so I’ve been browsing the new stock. I stood in the cubicle with a “matronly” bather, rouched along the waist, sensible legs, neck and back, tummy enforcers, and falsies. Well, let me tell you, I’ll be wearing last year’s bather too, to hell with the perished fabric, the non-existent elastic in the legs, the drooping bust line, or the colour. At least it fits, I hope!  

I, too, have no idea what my “bust” size is, and I’m telling you there’s something fishy about the sizing. To look reasonable in a bath this year, I’ll have to wear stilettos. Now that my hair’s turning grey, my autumn colours make me look sallow, and black is for Greek widows only. I wonder whether my Precious is buying lingerie for Christmas.

P.S If you see me on the beach, don't judge me too harshly. I still love a good tan and a surf. In fact, with a little colour, I also get my healthy glow back. After a medicinal gin and tonic, my confidence returns, too, and I can sing "18 till I die"!

P.P.S. If I should find the perfect bather and it's a tad frivolous, too bright, or even tight, I'll echo my Granny's words, “To hell with mutton, let's dress up as lamb"!

P.P.P.S., I have decided, twelve years later, that I am still 18 until I die, and I will not grow old gracefully but disgracefully. At last, I realize and wholeheartedly accept that the world is my oyster, and I’ll take it spicy, tart, and raw. I will slurp it up with gusto.