[Rising with the sons of madness crossing over the road ]

Swimsuit shopping makes me feel like cartoon Cathy. I just want to throw my hands up in the flurry of nylon and proclaim my refusal to participate in the cruel game purpotrated on women by the fashion industry. I haven’t bought a swimsuit since I was in 11th grade, and it seems to have gotten more complicated. I remember that even then it was a complicated ordeal. I drug Phil to every store imaginable in Jackson, Tenn., only to settle on a ridiculously overpriced two-piece-that’s-for-fatties-so-it-looks-like-one-piece at Goldsmith’s.

 

And, though I haven’t gone swimming that much since I bought it, it has succumbed to age and dry-rot, and is pretty much threadbare right around the ass and hanging off of my chest, requiring a crafty double-knot of the halter. Tossing frugality and self-consciousness to the birds in my ceiling (which, tangentially, Phil removed while I was at work; what a perfect sweetie), I ventured out to the suburban shopping haven known as Goody’s to get my hands on some skimpy duds.

 

I had forgotten that trangular slits of water-repellent fabric cost so much. $70 on average, but they were on sale for — woo! — 30 percent off. But I wasn’t really feeling shelling out even that much. So then I tried Old Navy, which had enough skimpy clothing to cover one 11-year-old girl, and not much more. I tried on  a ton of stuff, still feeling OK with my body though my ass was too big and my boobs were too small for everything. But I reasoned, That’s just because the stuff my size has already been picked over and purchased because I am the size of the average American woman.

 

Being an average American woman, Wal-Mart was naturally my next stop. And boy did it disappoint. I didn’t completely hate myself after trying on pair after pair of boy shorts and triangle-tops that either dug a little too close for comfort or hung a little too loose for me to even risk moving, but when I saw the one-piece granny suits that were my only other option, I realized that men might have it bad in the dressy clothing department, but they were given a divine nod when it comes to swimsuits.

 

+++

 

So here I am, sitting at work, virtually useless. I have become completely expendable now that they’ve hired a new designer, who got to do 1A yesterday after having been here only a week. They promised me 1A from the beginning, but chances are looking slim since I only have two weeks left. Sometimes they don’t even put me on the schedule, so when I show up, there’s this frantic exchange of glances between the other designers as they figure out which one of them isn’t supposed to be here. So when we all stay, they throw me a couple of pages to lay out and it takes me all of half an hour, and then I sit here and waste their money the rest of the time. I don’t mind that at all; it’s very low-stress. But it makes me feel like I suck.

 

+++

 

Happy birthday, Amanda! If I had any money, I’d chug a Coke for you right frickin’ now!

 

+++

 

I’ve posted what I hope is the beginning of a novel. Please give me whatever feedback you’d like to share.