Dear two piece bathing suit,
I’m writing to you from the couch, where I have taken solace after trying you on several minutes ago. The couch, my stretchy pants, sports bra and extra large glass of sauvignon blanc are comforting me as I prepare to face what I now know to be truth: you and I are over.
I’ve known this was coming for a long time. Frankly, for the past several years (especially last summer when I somehow convinced myself we were still together), I’ve had a sneaking suspicion that we were headed for the end. It was the little things. The way you got caught in a wedgie even when I wasn’t doing anything active or physical; the strange sunburn I got in between belly rolls on my stomach while wearing you; how I felt when I passed by a full length mirror and saw us…together…and grimaced. Heyyyyy, don’t cry. Come on now. We’ve had some pretty good years together.
2000 was a really good year for us. I remember being especially tan that spring break; I had just convinced my parents to let me pierce my belly button and you were aiding in showing it off; hell I even think back then I might have had a somewhat flat stomach. We sauntered around that white trash Florida beach and felt like it was the beginning of something huge.
Time passed as it always does and yet for several more years, we stayed strong. Remember summer 2005? I had just graduated college and had a new boyfriend (who would later become my husband). You and I were making our grand debut. You were strong and supportive in all the right ways and for a fleeting minute, upon passing my reflection outside of the beach club, I thought we might be together forever.
And then there was the summer of 2012. You knew I was going to bring that up. How could I not? It’s hard to talk about even now. I was 3 months pregnant with twins. I looked like I had eaten my whole family. And you were there looking at me, almost teasing me with your sexy halter and low cut bottoms. “You look fiiiiiine” you whispered. “Pregnant bellies are beautiful and meant to be shown off” you cooed. “Put me on, I’ll make you feel like your old self” you taunted.
And I fell for it. Each of your pathetic lines. I fell for it. I put you on, protected you with a sensible cover-up and walked out on that North Carolina beach with pride. Then I took off the cover up and in seconds, literal seconds, I realized we were headed for a break-up. You squeezed in all the wrong places. You didn’t support, well, anything. And you cut waaaaay too low this time. For anyone, but especially for someone who couldn’t even locate her feet. I marched back inside, took you off and threw you across the room. I pictured my life without you-a never ending montage reel of one piece bathing suits. I pictured my life moving forward: summers spent flipping sadly through the Jcrew swim catalog or the Victoria Secret swimsuit edition searching for those final pages. The ones at the end that are shunned from popular society. The ones that are even more shameful than the tankini-the poor man’s bikini. The one piece suits. The poor man’s tankini. The bathing suit the bikini made fun of all through high school. The social pariah. I looked at you lying in a heap on the floor. We will meet again I promised.
Here we are two piece. Sitting here having lost all of my baby weight (and some) and in pretty good shape for someone who grew two humans inside them. And yet, when I reached out to you, thinking we had both put 2012 behind us, you spit in my face. You little bitch. I thought for sure that we would again reunite and make beautiful imagery together and I was dead dead dead wrong.
So here I am, biding you farewell. Forever. As I prepare to move into a world of one piece depression, I am reminded of our good times more than our bad. Of that summer in 2000 when we changed the world (or just a tiny slice of a Panama City beach). Good luck to you. I hope you make a handful of women who haven’t had children yet very happy. I will get over you. Over us. And I will do that by spending the next several years figuring out how to use the bathroom in a one piece without having to pull the wet suit down, pee and then do that horrible thing where I try to pull it back up over my very cold… dead… skin.