kristen bell, swimsuit, lifeguard, swimming costume, swimming

Welcome to swimsuit hell

I need a new swimsuit. HELP ME. I have one municipal, PE mistress, elastic going at the bum one that I only let people at the local sports centre see. I have some crinkly bikinis from forever ago that I get out every year, put on, sigh and put away again. (I do not throw them away, because that would be like giving up)

I do not have a wardrobe of swimsuits where one dies and gets replaced like ruthless English people do with dogs. I have only one. And it is a secret shame.

I need a fun suit. You know the one that is supposed to look gorgeous poolside, beachside, boatside. So now I am in Dante’s Inferno. Here are the stages of swimsuit hell.

  1. SUIT MATHS: Establish how badly you need one. Badly enough to actually walk into a shop and try one on, with all those mirrors surrounding you (and giving you an unasked for and unwelcome view of your arse) probably with your shoes still on? Or do you order online? Last year I ordered online with no time to spare. The fun suit did not make me look like Sophia Loren in 50s Capri. It made me look like a pallid vicar’s wife from the early 90s. And I cannot buy one from Accessorize at the airport because I do not trust sequins. The vicar’s wife suit died in a horrible tumble drying accident.
  2. THE COLOUR CRISIS: Should I buy a red one? Is this year the time for a red one? The red will distract everything else, surely? But will I scare myself? OK, black it is.
  3. THE TRYING ON: Is there anything worse? *pauses for a moment to think* No. When you try on a swimsuit the laws dictate that you will be your palest, veiniest, hairiest. The lighting will be at its most East Germany brutal. There will be a full moon so you are already howling mad and the voice in your head will be like a terrible Bond villain berating you for having eaten an entire bar of Dairy Milk instead of doing a 1k (no typo). You will be shedding scaly dry skin ‘body dust’ as you tug the swimsuit on and you’ve got your knickers on anyway so… Most likely you’ll be so desperately trying not to cry that you can’t even see if it looks nice or not. You can just feel that it doesn’t. You just know. You think about cancelling the holiday.
  4. THE SURRENDER: You ordered five different sizes. One sort of *fits*. You must remember to cultivate a swimsuit wardrobe like a normal person. But that means going through this numerous times. Oh God. P.S. Since when were ‘cheap’ ones £60?!?
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