Squawk Radio

First, let me say thanks to my friends at Squawk Radio for inviting me to be their guest blogger. I'm honored, and to be honest, rather intimidated. I'm a virgin blogger. (There’s the straight line, ladies. You comedians can now go at it.) And thanks for the welcomes y'all posted to Terri's introduction yesterday. This seems like a friendly place and I'm excited to be here.

The distraction is more than welcome, too. Not only do I have a new book hitting the stands this week which makes me totally paranoid, I’m also trying to recover from a humiliating experience I endured yesterday.

I went shopping for a new swimsuit.

It was awful. I’d given up bikinis after baby diapers arrived, so I knew better than to think the experience would be fun. Still, I never expected to be so traumatized that I’d wish I were a vampire. (No reflection in the mirror.)

I walked into the store thinking I’d find something gravity defying. I wanted uplift and hold back and hide. I wanted a miracle of full-figure engineering.

What I found were scraps of stretch fabric designed for women who hadn't eaten since Halloween.

Still, I tried to be positive. I thought maybe those new tankinis would flatter my figure, so I expanded beyond one-piece black suites to the bright, eye-catching colors and clever prints that appealed to my inner teen. With my arms full, my heart hopeful, I entered the chamber of horrors that the skinny, pretty, young, terminally-friendly salesclerk called a fitting room.

I battled my way into the first suit, telling myself Lycra was my friend. I pulled and stretched and wiggled and jerked. When I finally got the shoulder straps into place, I felt like a package of marshmallows wrapped with a rubber band.

I looked...well...it wasn't pretty. My boobs had disappeared, pressed flat as speed bumps against my chest. Could Lycra somehow be adapted for use in mammography? I reached in and adjusted, but without built-in support, I ended up wearing one speed bump up and one speed bump down.

Trying to remain positive, I turned around for a rear view. Mistake. In that pretty, eye-catching Hawaiian print, my rear stretched from the Big Island all the way to Maui.

It went downhill from there. Rather than help me feel young again, the tankini brought to mind those three summers I bought my swimsuit in the maternity department. A one-piece had me looking for a second-piece to cover up all the extra skin that oozed from beneath the Lycra. I tried on a cute little pink skirt that made me look like Dumbo in dance class, a halter top with a built-in Wonder Bra that lifted my speed bumps up to my chin, and a sexy black corset-styled suit with legs cut so high I'd need an eyebrow wax to wear it.

I wanted to sit in the floor and cry, except I couldn't bend down without the speed suit I wore doing the thong thing, and I simply wasn't ready to deal with that.

Finally, I left the store with a new suit--a black and white version of Maui madness--and a despairing attitude. I exercise. I eat right. Why do I have speed bumps and flat tires? What happened to perky? When did my dimples change cheeks?

So, that’s my trauma for the week. What about the rest of you? Any swimsuit stories to share? We could publish them in an anthology. Bookstores could shelve it in...what? Horror?

Geralyn