(NOTE: To set the mood, this post is meant to be read with Right Said Fred (I’m Too Sexy) thumping in the background)

It’s that dreaded time of year – SWIMSUIT season. Ever since the birth of my kids, I’ve resisted putting on a swimsuit. I haven’t really had to wear one because up until a few months ago, my kids were too young to know what they were missing. Even last summer when we field tripped to the beach with my visiting nieces, I watched from a distance, babysitting bags, toys, towels, shoes, and taking pictures while everyone else splashed around in the Long Island Sound; never once taking off my shirt or shorts.

A few months ago, we joined the local Y so that the kids could take dance lessons. Every Saturday, we’d walk by the pool and Lady B would whine that she wanted to “go swimming.” I finally gave in and frantically searched my closet for my “fatter-sized” swimsuits because I was avoiding the task of buying a new one. Sadly, even my largest suit lodged an enormous wedgie into my now massive post-pregnancy @sscheeks, but I sucked it up and got around this by throwing on some soccer shorts that didn’t come off until I was about an inch from the edge of the pool.

This summer, I’m out of excuses. We’re planning a beach vacation to the Jersey Shore (FIST PUMP!), and I’m pretty sure my 2.5+ year old toddlers will NOT let Mommy get away without going into the water. So, in anticipation of our first REAL family beach vacation, I looked far and wide for a new swimsuit. I carefully zoomed over pictures, read every single description, and pored over buyer reviews to ensure that the swimsuit would fit my now much larger post-pregnancy body (yeah, 2+ years later and I’m STILL working on getting back to size). Almost 4 hours and $80 (YIKES!) later – actually $160, since I bought two different sizes (DOUBLE YIKES!!) – I thought I had bought THE perfect swimsuit. Jersey Shore, here I come!

Credit: nypost.com

The swimsuits were delivered to my door yesterday. Hubby had gotten home before I did, and had opened up the box.

“Do you REALLY need to spend $160 on swimwear?”

Annoyed, I responded, “Uhhhh…YEAH?! Unless you want me to wear a hot pink string bikini or a matronly one-piece with giant ugly flowers since those are the only things that I can find at Wal-Mart then yes, this is money well-spent.”

I ripped open the plastic wrap, certain that one of the two sets would be the perfect fit. First, I tried the skort. Even with the larger size, the inner panty squeezed my legs so tightly like a tourniquet that when I walked around, it created massive chub-rub between my legs (mental note: pack the Vaseline). As I turned to look in the mirror, the skirt moved in such a way that all of the junk-in-my-trunk looked more like two squirrels fighting in a spandex sac.

Kung Fu Squirrels – AKA “The junk in my trunk.” Credit: Huffington Post

I then tried on the top. It was so tight that stuffing my belly into it was like stuffing a sausage casing. After grunting, shoving, tucking, pulling and pushing, I finally managed to squeeze it on.

Freaking top – it’s so tight that it gives me jelly rolls.

I turned around to look at the side of the swimsuit and caught something out of the corner of my eye.

BACK FAT?? WTF, I have back fat??!!

As I examined myself in the mirror, my husband walked into the bedroom. He looked me up and down and remarked, “It looks OK, but maybe you should wear the swimsuit that you wore when we went to the Cape…”

“The Cape? You mean when I was 7 months pregnant??

“Well, at least it will fit better…” he responded, trying to avoid the wrath of a frustrated, stuffed sausage, fighting-squirrel-butt wife.


“EXCUSE ME?!!!” I snarled back.

“Um…” he stammered, “Cute new swimsuit! $160 well spent!” He opened the door and made a rapid exit.

As I grunted, tugged and twisted to get the swimsuit off which was equally as difficult to pull off as it was to put on, I mentally listed my options. I could repeat the scene at the Y, covering my unintentional (wedgiefied) thong-suit with shorts, I could go back to Wally World to see if I could find something REMOTELY acceptable, or I could (gasp!) wear my maternity swimsuit.

(Sigh)…I HATE it when he’s right.

Jersey Shore…here I come!

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