Crow's-Feet Chronicles: There are no 'slimsuits' on planet earth
By Cindy Baker Burnett
Jan 8, 2018
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Swimming is my exercise of choice, but after four months of swimming at a nearby fitness center, I fear that a school of piranhas has rejected my body in favor of the color and elasticity of my bathing suit (“swimsuit” to you toddlers). 

I always rinse the chlorine out of my suit. But, it has s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d beyond description! In fact, if I stand up straight and wiggle my toes, I can pull my suit off without using my hands. After I arrived at the fitness center last Monday and climbed down the ladder to begin swimming, I felt more resistance than usual. Sure enough, after swimming half the length of the Olympic-sized pool, I realized that my suit was caught on the ladder! In fact, I could pick up double hands full and pull them over my head. The swimsuit. 

I’m not alone. Others at the pool have complained, too. One girl said she looked down in the water and her suit had deteriorated to the point that the seams had completely opened up. A person might be able to perform a self-appendectomy in four feet of water. 

The time to shop for a new suit was urgent. Most of the suits today have the thickness of a cold-weather sneeze. I just wanted to find something with more substance than rolled-roast webbing.

I’d like to find something that fits me the same as the two-piece blue swimsuit that I once wore. I was 16 at the time and I haven’t been able to find a decent suit since I learned to make gravy. What the heck happened to my body, and where was I when it happened? Oh sure, they advertise camisole swimsuits with “firm control underwires.” But what I need is the thigh-slimmer knee-length pant with firm control underwires at the rear. 

Staying away from bikinis, small one-piece numbers, buckles, zippers, animal fur, and blinking lights at the crotch area, I usually look for a swim burka because it looks good on everyone. The optimum goal is to wear something that distracts the eye from noticing the swimsuit. Anything with large clusters of diamonds might do nicely. For sure, I try to wear tops that keep my midriff from resting on my pelvic bones. 

The last time I struggled in the dressing room and wiggled into a swimsuit, I realized that I had cleavage for the first time in my life. True, it was in the back. Holy Cheez Whiz on a cracker, what a horror show THAT was! There was no purchase that day, and I went home to begin my lettuce diet. 

A week ago, I went online and found a swimsuit that’s resistant to chlorine. Woo-Hoo! But it was a shocker to try it on when it arrived, since I had been used to stretched fabric. After tugging and struggling, gasping and heaving, I finally wiggled into the killer tourniquet. When I finally gathered enough guts, I asked Lanny to take a look. He threw up in his mouth a little bit but quickly gave his affirmation. Holding up my hand mirror, I stared at the back of my swimsuit through the vanity mirror. “Lanny, what is that growth on my back?” Recently, I had bruised my ribs and was afraid there were complications. He pressed it but it didn’t hurt. “Press it harder.” He did. No pain. Neither one of us dared suggest that it might be a swimsuit-strangled and constricted globule of---eh-hem---fatty tissue. 

I took the box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls off the grocery list.