If you listened very closely on Sunday afternoon, if you paused around 2:30 pm and noticed that a shrieking sound was coming from the Midwest part of the country, well then you probably heard the sounds of my boobs being manipulated, squished and stuck in a tankini bathing suit in the dressing room of Target.
It is that dreaded time of year where women across the country scream uncontrollably as they attempt to try on bathing suits for the upcoming swimming season.
We grab that size 6 when we know we are really an 8. Or a 10. Or maybe even a 12. And we dig our hands in the top of the bathing suit to shift our breasts left, right, up and down in an attempt to make them fit into the suit.
And in the end, we are left with a suit that is half-way on our body, boobs hanging down below it and an ego that requires a pint of ice cream to recover.
And the worst part – yes, the very worst part, is that we are literally stuck there. Stuck with our hands over our heads, trying to desperately wiggle our muffin tops and droopy parts out of the sucking fabric from hell.
When we do finally remove ourselves from the spandex sausage wrap, we are exhausted. Absolutely exhausted.
Which, in the end, means that we are too tired to ever want to swim. Thus, not needing the damn bathing suit in the first place.
