At one point or another, Summer blows in, trailing specters, wraiths, ghosts and poltergeists in her wake. What form of ghost could possibly withstand the smiling, ray -beaming face of Summer?
Aren’t ghosts in summer like white shoes before Labor Day? Nice people don’t get them?
Wrong. Instead of trailing dark robes and chains a la Bob Cratchet, Summer’s ghosts wail and wander around in tiny pieces of spandex known as The Swimsuit. The slapping sounds in the attic at night are flip flops wandering in an endless circle of insecurity.
I have, what I consider to be, a natural Darwinian reluctance to wear anything smaller than a placemat and a couple of napkins.
Designers skillfully manipulate those tiny pieces of spandex using swagging, stretching, draping, tying, ruffling, or skirting in an effort to make us feel they are not, really, tiny pieces of spandex.
You’re supposed to put them on, and get in the water.
I don’t think so.
This is where the haunting starts. While the actual tiny pieces of artfully designed spandex remain in our drawers and closets, the visions of them crowd the house: hanging around the mirrors, the fridge, and the pantry. Their mission: scare us away from the food.
Don’t even look at those Oreos.
Oreos are generally guarded by those crocheted sting bikinis only a pre-teen could wear. Same for the Doritos. Baked-not-fried potato chips might attract a regular bikini. Anything pre-packaged but claiming low-fat will probably be defended by a lap-swim one-piece. Trans-fat on the pre-packaged label? A lap-swim one-piece with color blocking.
If you’re lucky, the one-piece with the long skirt, midriff drapery swags, and upholstery-sized flowers will let you near the apples and celery sticks. Make that an apple and two celery sticks. Don’t even try for the peanut butter, the snotty high-cut leg midi-suit is on patrol there.
Ice cream? Ha. All the swimsuits will leave every other food item in the house and congregate in the freezer over the ice cream tub, wafting back and forth.
And THAT is for generic ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s? Shoot, your neighbors bathing suit ghosts will come to help haunt. It will be the block party of bathing suit hauntings.
I want to know the name of the person who invented those surfing board shorts for women. Why? Because I want to kiss his or her feet, and leave offerings of chocolate and oranges. (Flowers. Money. My house.)
I can now go swimming in public without showing the lovely curve (read: cellulite-pocked saddlebag buldge) of my upper thighs. Swimming is FUN for the first time in my adult life!
And now – you are SO not going to believe this – you can buy surfing swim T-shirts. T-shirts (with or without sleeves!) made for swimming with board shorts. That awful itchy, hot one-piece that makes you feel like a granny? You can TOSS the sucker and get a cool hip surfer-chick look, eat the occasional meal, and avoid liposuction at the same time.
My bikini ghosts took one look at my board shorts, screamed, slapped their wet flip flops out the back door and into my neighbors kitchen.
And I jauntily swiped my finger through a tub of Cool-whip.