Momma’s Little Surprise

Momma’s Little Surprise

From Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul

Momma’s Little Surprise

I got a call from a friend the other day, asking me if 7:00 A.M. is too early to start drinking when one must try on mail-order bathing suits. I said, “Hell, no! And if I were you, I would start slamming down the tequila an hour prior to ripping into the first plastic bag.”

She thanked me and said she knew she could count on my support. “No problem,” I replied; we women need to stick together.

Her phone call sent me into shock as it reminded me it was that time of year again and somehow I had forgotten to go on a diet. I’m not vain; I’m fat. Over the past sixteen years, my husband and I gained seventy-five pounds collectively. Sadly, our accountant rolled his eyes at us when we asked if we could claim our girth as a new dependant. I said, “Come on! We’ve gained the equivalent of a fourth-grader; that’s gotta count for something.” His answer was a firm no.

At any rate, it is time for my annual disrobing and a chance to see what one more year has done to my body.

Worse, by far though, is that this year I need to buy a new bathing suit, and the thought gives me tremors, especially because of what happened the last time I bought a new suit.

I forked over eighty bucks for a catalog swimsuit that promised I would look slimmer, trimmer and younger. Yeah, I know I foolhardily bought into the propaganda, but at this point in my life, I would try voodoo if I thought it would work.

I decided on the black mock tankini that came equipped with a shelf bra and the promise that the steel-enforced fabric would tuck my tummy and firm my fanny. It arrived the day we left for vacation, so I threw it in my suitcase and headed for the beach.

I tugged, I pulled, I sweated. An hour later, the suit was on and, oh boy, did I feel fabulously firm. I walked to the full-length mirror and let out a scream so primal that my kids banged on the bedroom door, asking if they should call an ambulance. I told them no, but then said that maybe they could call the local butcher and ask if he’s interested in buying a human sausage link.

The shelf bra worked its magic. It coaxed my normally low-hanging breasts up to my earlobes. I now had what looked like a horrible case of the mumps. Not only that, but some of the flesh decided it did not want to meet my neck and would rather hang out elsewhere. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn someone shoved hotdog rolls under my armpits.

As for the tummy tucker, well there is a little known scientific fact that states, “What gets smushed in, also gets smushed out.”

Sure, I had a flat tummy but that’s because all the subcutaneous fat pushed itself down and out of the bottom of the suit. I had a sorry case of frontal butt cheeks.

After that, I swore I’d never purchase another swimsuit again until I lost weight, but like I said, somehow dieting slipped my mind. This year, I am trying a new approach to the swimsuit fiasco. I told my husband and children that for Mother’s Day I would rather have a gift certificate to the local sporting goods store, instead of the usual dinner out. When they asked me why, I said, “It’s a surprise.”

This summer, I’m gonna buy me a full-length wetsuit. Whadda ya think about that? Creative huh? No more crying or screaming for me. No siree, this year, I’ll be tucked and smooth from neck to ankles.

I’ve decided against the flippers, though. I do have long, slim toes that I want to accentuate with pink, Day-Glo toenail polish. As for the goggles, I’m still not sure. My impeccable fashion sense tells me that would be overdoing it.

Golly, I just had a fabulous thought. My thirteen-year-old daughter finds my mere presence on this earth an embarrassment to her. Wait until she gets a load of my new beachwear.

Susan Krushenick

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