I’ve decided that if I become President, or even a Supreme Court Justice, I will either draft a new law, or interpret an old one, to force, coerce, manipulate, impose, dictate, and make mandatory, that past prime females (and some males) must NOT try on, buy, prance around in, or even wear in public, etc, any garment known as a modern bathing suit. And men’s marble bags would be banned with extreme prejudice. Tell you why.
I was working in a tiny little glass enclosed office on Folly Beach in South Carolina one day back in the 90s. (That’s 1990s to all you guys with a black sense of humor). When in walked this big hirsute dude (very hairy) wearing nothing but . . . you know. What I said in the previous paragraph. There was only a little counter between him and me and he seemed to take up all the space and air in the entire room. He loomed. But it turned out he was a nice enough Yankee guy, even though he had the accent and mannerisms of a felon and I had backed up as far into the back wall as possible. But, you know. I credit my nervous twitch to that experience. I’ve never been diagnosed, but I’m pretty sure I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder because of that one guy in the guy-bikini. I haven’t even been able to watch Magnum P.I. in his Hawaiian short shorts since then.
I am not in any form or fashion dissin’ seniors. I’m one myself. Therefore the law I tend to draft. Because if there is a law, I would not have gone through the ignominy, degradation, humiliation, mortification I went through at Attalla Walmart yesterday, finally choosing a bathing suit with a skirted bottom with a top that comes well down over it.
Still way too much leg and, and, and you know . . . other stuff . . . showing. It was the first time I had to try on a bathing suit in over twenty years. Do you know what a score of years does to the female body? You don’t want to know. But swimming this summer is on the agenda.
But, I have a plan, ladies, for those of us who haven’t the means or inclination for gyms, tones, personal trainers, spas, etc. We go back in time. Back. Back. Back in time. To bloomers on the beach.
See how much more comfortable these people look.
See how much more comfortable we are looking AT them. Now that I’m past 65, how I’d love to go to Walmart and see this ensemble hanging up instead of what I had to buy, and at some point will even . . . ugh . . . wear. But somewhere along the way, somebody invented the Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini, and it’s all gone downhill from there. Down from the top. Down from the bottom. Off the bottom. Until now there is barely a whisper of decency.
At least the girl in the original bikini song showed a smattering of modesty. I’m trying to find a moo-moo to go over mine, and it has more material than a dozen modern bikinis.
Just watch for my name on the Presidential ballot, folks, or give me a shout out when I stand up for Supreme Court Justice. We’ll have America the Beautiful once again instead of America the Booty Full.