It's definitely time to get back to fitness.
This because I did the dreaded deed of bathing suit shopping today and although I came away with a cute new Speedo, I had a wardrobe malfunction while trying on a variety of suits.
Or should I say, while trying this one:
Even though I suspected I might look like a bowling ball with legs, I had the nerve to take this little number into the fitting room - in a size smaller than I usually wear.
You know, because I'm insane and live a life filled with clouded delusion.
So I squeeze myself into the fitting room.
Bear in mind I was in the pool's tiny sport shop so there wasn't a lot of space to manouevre.
To make matters worse, an incredibly athletic, somewhat snotty clerk was seated at the cash desk not two feet away from where I was trying things on.
I started with a floral number that, although incredibly tropical, wasn't serious enough for an athlete such as myself.
The second suit was really cute, and very flattering - that is, until I looked at the tag and realized it was maternity.
Oh for the fabulosity.
I thought about it for a moment, but then remembered, I have my pride. Better to try on the smaller speedo in the hopes that it would suck it all in than put on something designed for a woman with child.
And so I began.
Shimmying the suit up past my hips and then slithering one arm and then... oof! ugh!... the other arm in, the finished product was... not very good.
People, I looked like a giant black drumstick.
And that wasn't the worst of it.
Getting into the suit may have been an olympic feat, but getting out of it was going to damn near require a miracle.
Further, I had to carry out the operation covertly as I didn't want the swimsuit model at the cash desk to know my plight.
I got my first arm out somehow, but every time I tried to twist or turn my other shoulder the seams would begin to tear.
I shimmied and twisted and worked up a sweat until I finally realized I was trapped.
Forty six years old and imprisoned by a Speedo.
I knew I only had two options:
1. To tear the suit off and pay for it.
2. To call Amy Van Dyken in and have her try to extricate it from my body.
Normally I would have gone with option number one - but the Speedo was $75.00 and the maternity suit was looking cuter and cuter.
So I pulled together my last ounce of self respect and "Yoo hoo'd" out the fitting room door...
"Excuse me miss, this is really embarrassing, but I seem to be stuck."
To which I am greeted by a huge sigh.
Apparently I was the third women in the last few weeks to suffer a similar fate.
The good news, though, is that between the two of us we managed to set me, and my captive fat, free.
In the meantime, I picked up this fabulous little number.
Oh, who am I kidding...
You know I bought the maternity suit!!
And that's the blog.
Stay tuned later today for our Weekday Wednesday meal - this time featuring *ahem* a lightened up version of chili con carne - you know, so I'll be ready for bikini season...
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