Self Inflicted

What could be more fun that bringing your three children bra shopping?

Taking your husband swimming suit shopping, that's what!

Today marked an important milestone in the evolution of our almost 12-year marriage and even longer pairing. Today was the day my husband suggested, while we were at the mall picking up some much-needed summer essentials for our kids, that it might be a good idea if I get a new swimming suit too (he'd obviously heard me complaining about my MiracleSuit being not such a miracle after all).

I guess he knows what side his bread is buttered on.

So there we were at Macy's, thumbing through rack upon rack (no pun intended, unless you are my husband in the ladies swim section, surrounded by racks) of tops, bottoms and one-pieces. I would hold up something I thought might possibly be acceptable and he'd give me a thumbs up or a thumbs down and then I'd add it to the heavy load of hanging swimwear that was permanently taking up residence on my right arm.

Note to husband: the next time your wife takes you swimming suit shopping (or any other kind of shopping, for that matter), OFFER TO HOLD HER ITEMS!

After I'd compiled enough suits to equal a worthwhile trip to the dressing room, I grabbed his arm and headed toward the first open door I saw. I'd already scoped out the one single dressing room and decided that it would be much better to have him sit on the little bench inside rather than have me parade out in front of total strangers to model the suits.

Plus, I am not fond of people gasping and holding their hands over their mouths and then running in the other direction when they see me at Macy's, under the fluorescent lighting, in a swimsuit that would make my grandmother cry.

Also, I don't like to let my bare feet touch the floor of such places, but that is neither here nor there.

The first suit was cute. I was actually surprised, as I was not thinking that buying swimwear in 2008 would be a very good time for me.

"That's good, but try the next one," Brett said as I flung the suit at him and told him that it is always the job of the person not trying on the clothes to put whatever has just been tried on back on it's hanger. Right?

I grabbed the next suit in line, a simple black tank with a pink trim on the bust and pink straps.

Brett muttered something about how he has never really been into the whole pink and black color combination and I ignored him as I tugged and pulled at the fabric and tried to slide it over my rear.

Hmmm, not gliding on as easy as the first, I thought.

Yeah, this is not working AT ALL! I thought.

"What size is this suit anyway?" I finally said out loud.

To which my lovely husband replied, "Not YOUR size."

I grabbed the suit, ripped it off and searched for the tag, which was now rolled up in the lycra/spandex/rubber material that the suit was made of.

Duh. It was a single digit size. A really small single digit size that has not seen itself on any of my clothes since 1993. No wonder I couldn't pull it up.

But at least I had my husband there, for moral support, pointing out the obvious!