There are certain things nobody prepares you for as you get older.
Reading glasses.
Making a little noise every time you stand up.
Getting genuinely excited about a new vacuum cleaner.
And then there’s the annual event that really tests a woman’s emotional strength:
Buying a bathing suit.
Because buying a bathing suit in your 60s is VERY different from buying one in your 20s.
In Your 20s: “Is This Sexy Enough?”
At 22, bathing suit shopping was fun.
You walked into the store carrying six bikinis that appeared to have been manufactured using approximately 11 inches of fabric total.
You tried one on.
Turned sideways.
Turned around.
Adjusted one tiny string.
And thought:
“Hmm. I don’t know. Does this make my butt look weird?”
YOUR BUTT WAS PERFECT.
You just didn’t know it.
You had no idea you were currently living through the Golden Years of Your Butt.
You should have appreciated it.
You should have photographed it.
You should have written it a thank-you note.
Instead, you stood there criticizing a body that would someday become a distant memory.
In Your 30s: “Can I Chase a Child in This?”
By your 30s, priorities had changed.
You still wanted cute.
But now the bathing suit had to survive actual life.
Could you bend over without revealing something that wasn’t invited to the pool party?
Could you pick up a toddler?
Could you get out of a pool without the bottoms staying behind?
Could you go down a waterslide without the top relocating to another part of your body?
You started looking for words like:
supportive.
You didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning.
In Your 40s: “Maybe a Little Tummy Control.”
Then came your 40s.
Suddenly you discovered an entirely new section of the bathing suit department.
TUMMY CONTROL.
Ohhhhh.
Well, hello there.
You’d pull on a suit promising firm control and think:
“YES. CONTROL ALL OF IT.”
You wanted something flattering.
Something with ruching.
Something that lifted the girls a little closer to where you remembered leaving them.
Maybe a skirted bottom.
But not an old lady skirt.
God forbid.
You weren’t ready for that.
You still had standards.
In Your 60s: “COVER IT. SECURE IT. LET’S GO.”
Then you hit your 60s.
You walk into the bathing suit department like a woman entering negotiations.
Your requirements have changed.
You are no longer asking:
“Is this sexy?”
You are asking:
“Does this thing have STRUCTURAL ENGINEERING?”
I need tummy control.
Bust support.
Wide straps.
Full coverage.
Nothing cutting into anything.
Nothing crawling anywhere.
Nothing requiring a Brazilian wax.
And if there happens to be a bathing suit containing reinforced steel and load-bearing walls, BRING IT TO THE FITTING ROOM.
Then you try it on.
Getting it up is the first challenge.
You pull.
You tug.
You wiggle.
You stop halfway because apparently putting on a bathing suit now counts as cardio.
Finally, it’s on.
You look in the mirror.
And somehow your left boob is pointing toward Florida while the right one is considering a trip to Maine.
So you rearrange the merchandise.
Lift.
Tuck.
Adjust.
Smooth.
There.
Then you notice something sticking out near your armpit.
WHAT IS THAT?
Was that there yesterday?
Is that mine?
You poke it.
Yep.
Mine.
Wonderful.
Then you turn sideways.
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Turn back.
Front view only.
We’re done here.
And Then Comes the Miracle
Eventually, after trying on 14 bathing suits and questioning every decision you’ve made since 1983, you find one.
It’s comfortable.
The girls are contained.
Your stomach looks reasonably cooperative.
Nothing is hanging out.
Nothing is riding up.
And most importantly…
you can breathe.
You stand in front of the mirror and think:
“You know what? This isn’t bad.”
And THAT is when you realize how much things have changed.
At 22, you wanted to look hot.
At 35, you wanted to look cute.
At 45, you wanted to look slimmer.
At 60-something?
You just want everything to stay where you put it.
And here’s the best part.
Once you actually get to the beach, you look around and realize something.
Nobody cares.
They’re worried about their own stomach.
Their own thighs.
Their own boobs.
Their own mysterious armpit situation.
So you put on your sunglasses.
Throw on your cute cover-up.
Grab your drink.
And walk toward that pool like the fabulous 60-something woman you are.
Because after six decades on this earth, we’ve earned the right to stop sucking in our stomachs.
Besides…
I can either suck in my stomach or breathe.
And at this age?
I’m choosing oxygen. 😂
— Arctic Blonde Society
Where getting older isn’t always graceful… but at least it’s funny.
