A Lighter View
Self-torture analyzed
By K.E.H. Stagg

June 11, 2009

Every year, millions of people worldwide undergo rubberized torture. I’m not talking about hoses that are used to beat them about the body, although the torso definitely suffers in the process I’m talking about. No, the torture to which I refer is that of attempting to fit into last year’s swimsuit, or—worse yet—into a new swimsuit.

Swimsuit manufacturers clearly don’t ever try on their own designs. No one over the age of 10 could ever look presentable in the slashes of fabric cut so deeply from both ends, the sum total could just about make a decent-sized handkerchief. And if the fabric isn’t so flimsy it turns see-through thin during one summer of use, it’s heavy-duty canvas with zero flexibility that makes the wearer look more like a mechanical robot attempting to swim laps than a human being.

But I digress! I know that some of the cottage-cheese effects on my person is my own fault. If I were willing to run a marathon at least twice a week, or swim the English Channel every so often, I wouldn’t have to worry about cramming myself into a swimsuit that’s shrunk after a few months of lying, unused, in the dresser drawer. But some effects of aging I can’t control. Gravity doesn’t suck; it sags. There are folds of skin that have sprouted in the most unimaginable places—like the backs of my knees, for crying out loud! Trust me, short of plastic surgery overhaul, those folds will only dangle lower, and pretty soon I’ll be the proud owner of the fattest ankles on the planet.

For those of us who balk at revealing more of ourselves in public than the doctor sees during our annual exam, there is an alternative. It’s an industrial-strength rubber tent, reinforced with concrete molding. Not only is the amount of fabric the same approximate yardage used in the manufacture of sails, it’s accompanied by the same number of pulleys and winches to hoist it into place, thereby ensuring the complete concealment of unsightly flaps and bulges.

I’ve never been brave enough to venture out of the changing room to ask an innocent bystander, “What do you think?” But I’ve overheard enough wheezing and grunting from adjacent changing rooms in the local swimwear departments to know I’m not alone in this agony of soul. And I’ve talked to enough individuals (both men and women) in the Dillsburg area to confidently claim that they share my pain when it comes to stuffing folds, rolls and dimples into swimming apparel.

I’ve torn my meniscus, pulled a hamstring, thrown out my back and bruised my biceps, all in a wasted effort to suit myself up for the summer swimming season. Frankly, I don’t need all this wear and tear. I need to book myself a spa weekend to recover. I’m just not planning to use the pool—no point in re-injuring myself!