Today I tried on my bikini.
My purpose in trying on my bikini was to see if the elastic still worked, because nothing is worse than a lime-green-and-yellow-paisley, rhinestoned string bikini except a lime-green-and-yellow-paisley, rhinestoned string bikini that falls off.
Instead, I learned that– after sixteen months of nursing school and four months of absolute failure to exercise more than once a week (not to mention all the Nutella and cheese [often at the same time])– my pale, sluglike, alternately bony and squishy body is much, much worse than any paisley bikini.
In a panic, I searched the entire internet for swimsuits that would suit my new body type. Fear not, O ladies emerging from winter slumber! I will share my bounty.
First, I thought I might be able to fashionably cover up the offending parts, while still displaying my super-sexy ribcage and flat chest region. (Shut up, my ribcage is sexy as hell.)
Well, no. See, that doesn’t even look good on the model, who is paid to look good, and who has probably been paid to look good in clothes so ugly Tyra Banks wouldn’t inflict them on her Next Top Models.
Huh… maybe I can find something to distract casual viewers while still displaying a bit of skin:
This is an excellent choice for women who feel that their flaws, while severe enough to justify obsessive self-flagellation, would be easy to hide behind a recycled bead curtain.
Some of us, though, are looking for less of a distraction and more of a disguise.
Although this swimsuit offers no more than average coverage, it allows you to convincingly imitate the furniture from your doctor’s office, which nobody looks at any longer than they have to. Ideal!
If, however, you are a leper or a vampire just exceedingly fish-fillet lily-pale toothpaste-with-chlorine-bleach white, you might prefer something a little more… head to toe.
We will politely ignore the strange disembodiment of her head, because while some might cry “photoshop!” we are tolerant and accepting of people’s differences. This swimsuit replaces embarrassing skin deformities with Seussian charm!
For some, however, disfiguring werewolf-battle scars take a supporting role beside the disfiguring emotional werewolf scars of low self-esteem. There are also many women who believe that Jesus offers exactly as much redeeming blood, in milliliters, as they possess of body surface that no human has seen, in centimeters. To these, I suggest an even more modest and ladylike swimsuit:
This demure cladding will shield your tender ego from the gaze of passersby and your vulnerable soul from the balefires of Hades.
In case you are especially pious, laboring constantly under the burdensome knowledge that if any man so much as glimpses the vague outline of your elbow, that man will be eaten by the same deathless worm that eternally devours Satan:
This impervious tent-suit not only repels water and dries quickly when exposed to air, it refuses to cling to your womanly curves in any way that it would not also cling to, say, a washing machine. It also promises an exciting summer of nonstop yeast infections and heat rash!
However, I do not possess womanly curves. I do not even possess manly curves. I am a stick with nipples. My navel is a dent.
So I offer a few options for those of you ladies endowed with buxom allure. Enjoy your sexiness! Flaunt your cleavage! Send those men to hell!
For example, look at this Olympic swimmer:
Somebody call the fashion police! This woman has great potential, but her swimwear leaves something to be desired. Something known as “boobies.” Here, Ms. Pride of America, give this a try:
Ohhhh yeah. That’s so sexy I’m having difficulty not humping my screen. Look at your life, Ms. Olympian, look at your choices. Would you rather have a tacky gold-coin necklace, or THIS?
And for those of you with plastic-perfect bodies, waxed from stem to stern, imbued with the powers of silicone and spray tan, why not go for the ultimate expression of female empowerment?
Just look at it! The poise! The class! The fishing line and scraps of penalty flag! I’m sure I needn’t tell you that this woman is clearly the pinnacle of womanhood. (Please note the sublime, astonished awe on the face of the woman in the right foreground, who is torn between envy and admiration.) God, I wish I were a woman like that. I would put that bikini on and flaunt it to my grave. I would wear that shit to Wal-Mart.
Alas, it can never be. My buttcheeks don’t touch.