Author unknown.  This came in a great email to me today.



When I was a child in the 1960s the bathing suit
for the mature 
figure was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered.
They were built to hold back and uplift and they did a good job.

Today’s stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a 
figure carved from a potato chip.

The mature woman has a choice-she can either go up front to the 
maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming 
away looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney’s Fantasia 
or she can wander around every run of the mill department store 
trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer 
range of fluorescent rubber bands. What choice did I have? I wandered 
around, made my sensible choice and entered the chamber of horrors 
known as the fitting room.

The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of 
the stretch material. The Lycra used in bathing costumes was 
developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a 
slingshot, which give the added bonus that if you manage to actually 
lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as any 
shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer 
whiplash. I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the 
shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror – my chest had disappeared!

Eventually, I found one part of it cowering under my left armpit. It took a 
while to find the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh rib.

The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature 
woman isn’t meant to wear her femininty spread across her chest like a speed bump.

I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the
mirror to take a full view assessment.

The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those 
bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out 
rebelliously from top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of 
play dough wearing undersized cling wrap.

As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the 
prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, "Oh, 
there you are," she said, admiring the bathing suit.

I replied that I wasn’t so sure and asked what else she had to show 
me. I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of 
masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an 
oversized napkin in a serving ring.

I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills 
and came out looking like Tarzan’s Jane, pregnant with triplets and 
having a rough day.

I tried on a black number with a midriff and looked like a jellyfish 
in mourning.

I tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought I 
would have to wax my eyebrows to wear them.

Finally, I found a suit that fit…a two-piece affair with a shorts 
style bottom and a loose blouse-type top.

It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful outcome, I figured.

When I got home, I found a label which read — "Material might become 
transparent in water."

So, if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of water 
this year and I’m there too .. I’ll be the one in cut off jeans and a 

"Life isn’t about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the