It sucks.
The End
Okay, I won't leave it at that because it's just stating the obvious. I'll also be honest and say that, until my mid-40s, swimsuit shopping had never been a challenge. In my teens and twenties, I had a stick thin figure through no fault or effort of my own. Then the bebas came in my thirties, which means I had to start making a concerted effort to exercise a few times a week and hit the sweets a few times less than that. Sure, okay, I got this. Then the big 4-0.
Now don't get me wrong, I looooove the changes this decade has brought to my mind and my spirit. My body? Girl, bye. But dang, I'm fighting it. Six days a week at the gym, hitting the pavement and working the yoga mat. Not to mention being mindful of everything I put in my mouth. The result is a chick who's stronger and healthier than she's ever been, and I'm super proud of her. But then there's this bitch I can't get around named Gravity.
Gravity wants to hang out with everybody, honey. Your boobs, your butt, your stomach, even your KNEES, for cryin' out loud. Doesn't matter to her that no one wants her around. She's like that friend that's always inviting you to her hostess parties (now there's a blog post for another time), and no matter how many times you decline, she keeps popping up in your Facebook events like a chin hair. Gah! So it's no surprise that Gravity is right there with you when it's time to look for a swimsuit. She's a pushy personal shopper, your mother and every body issue you've had since thirteen all rolled into one.
Now I'm going to stop bashing Gravity for a second and turn my wrath to another entity for a moment. The swimsuit manufacturers. People. Please. Consider the fact that you currently have a grand total of TWO lines on the market. The first is called "I'm Nineteen", and the second is called "I've Given Up". Neither applies here. We. Need. More. Options. And of course Ima gonna give some advice on those on behalf of my sistas who got Gravity tagging along, but still otherwise got it goin' on. First let's talk about The Girls.
The Girls have been residing in the middle of our chest for about thirty years or so, and they tired, chile. They've fed babies, they've entertained a gentleman caller or two, and they've been horribly mistreated by people with surgical gloves and cold metal plates. (Important stuff though. Get your boobies checked.) Since The Girls can't pack up and move, they'd just like to explore other territory, preferably one they can hide out in. The navel looks good, as do the armpits. The bottom line is that The Girls are all over the dang place in this phase of life. They need support and room to rest. But they are, at their bosom (see what I did there?), vain creatures and would like a behind-the-scenes infrastructure to allow them to stand at attention and relive their glory days.
Now on to the Baby Keeper. She has been even more abused than The Girls. All the core work in the world can't keep Gravity from going after her, the poor thing, and she is ready to become a nun and take the veil. In the form of fringe, draping, mesh or netting in a variety of colors and patterns, please.
The rest of the advice for the industry is just a series of "nos". Strapless? No. White? No. Hook closures? No. Shelf bras? No. Thong or Rio bottoms? Stand real still while I shove my spanx over your head. Swimsuits over $50? Uhh, I'm a public school employee whose monthly salary is on par with the car allowance of the superintendent. Y'all got layaway?
The bottom line is that Gravity ain't going anywhere. And she's ultimately going to win. But maybe swimsuit manufacturers can throw a lot more options to the retailers so that the over 40 she-warriors can at least better arm ourselves for the fight. It may be a losing battle, but it doesn't mean we can't bring our A game and look our best along the way. Well within our rights, and most fitting for the fabulous women that we have earned our way into being.
Sparkly Kisses,
D
