A Pound of Flesh

Had a day containing events only slightly more preferable to the Chinese Water Torture.

I had promised my step-daughter that I would take her shopping for bathing suits as she desperately needed a few for her job as camp counselor. If ever our kids reflect back upon the past with lingering doubts as to whether or not they were unconditionally loved, I hope that they recall moments such as these.

In the first place, shopping is my least favourite activity (unless it's for books). In the second place, I haven't purchased a bathing suit for myself in years, much less a bikini. Seriously, for awhile I was wearing my maternity bathing suit (mind you, it's from Paris and is totally gorgeous, but it's still maternity wear for God's sakes). For those who are not acquainted with my step-daughter, or haven't seen her in awhile, allow me to paint you a little picture. She stands about five feet nine inches tall (all legs), weighs in at 115 pounds, and is drop dead gorgeous. It is hard to sit there and watch her pop out of the dressing room in barely there swimwear, only to have her ask if the pink bikini makes her look fatter than the black one.

Since, as I mentioned before, I lack any appropriate swimwear, I was coaxed into trying on a few numbers myself. Picture me in a claustrophobic, terribly lit dressing room struggling into what my step-daughter described as being a skanky bikini (she meant it in a good way, apparently). Then while surveying myself in the mirror (not a skinny one either) and wondering if I could pull it off, I would hear her calling me, asking me to come out of the dressing room so I could see her in whatever suit she'd tried on. So yeah, I had the added stress of having to dash out in an itty bitty two-piece so I could log in my opinion. Fortunately, I only tried on a couple of suits to her dozen (in sizes about five times bigger than hers, too, I might add), so the humiliation factor was somewhat contained. The highlight was when I came out shyly in this pornographic white bikini and she nodded her head approvingly with the statement "I'm into it". To my question "But isn't it a little too hello-these-are-my-breasts?", she gently replied "That's the whole idea", completely oblivious to my fear of unmentionable body parts making themself known to the general public at any given point in time.

It was either an example of unconditional trust or sheer insanity on my part, but I elected to purchase the bikini that she'd deemed to be acceptable. I kept reiterating though that if I found myself poolside and people were pointing and snickering, I would come after her ass with a vengeance. She shrugged her shoulders and just proceeded to the cash register without comment, leaving me with the lingering question as to what that meant.

I kept flashing back to my university days when my mom used to take me clothes shopping. My mother and I are built quite differently. She has a very petite feminine frame to my Amazonian one (the latter is my dad's description, not my own). At the age of twelve, I was already starting to outgrow her sweaters and shirts.

Now I could be paranoid, but I swear that my mom used to delight in taking me shopping in the days when I was a little more well-endowed and couldn't fit into most dresses, jackets and tops comfortably. We used to get adjacent dressing rooms and she would pick out identical dresses for us to try on. Mine was always about four sizes larger than hers, of course. When we would emerge from our rooms, she would look fabulous, and I would either be wearing my own clothes because I couldn't squeeze into the dress, or I would come out looking completely ridiculous. Since I'm not exactly well proportioned, the dress would be straining in the bust and shoulder areas. It really was a crushing experience for a twenty-something-year-old to have her middle-aged mom look better in an outfit. From the look of glee on my mom's face, I think it was a completely pleasurable one for her though. Actually, she used to entertain herself during my visits by showing me her latest purchase and then suggesting that I try it on, despite my protests that it would never fit, after which she would laugh at the sight of me.

(Thankfully, things evened out for me a bit after having had my kids. While I still have somewhat of a problem finding dresses because I lack that perfectly proportioned feminine figure that designers based their prototype upon, I don't look so ridiculous anymore. Time and menopause has also altered my mom's figure so that she is now more bottom heavy than she used to be, and therefore can't fit into any of my stuff. For some reason though, she is still under the delusion that I am five sizes bigger than her and continues to purchase me clothes that essentially fit me like burlap sacks).

With all of this in mind, I followed my step-daughter to the checkout counter with my bikini clutched tightly in hand, all the while wondering if she just didn't care what I bought for myself, and was simply humouring me, since after all, I was footing the bill for the whole shopping expedition.

I love my step-daughter to death, but should one of my breasts make an unexpected appearance, I'm going to kill her.