(Originally Posted by Creeping Jennie on Tuesday, 24 March 2015 in Sturgis.com Blogs)
If you have not already done so, could you please vote for me in the poster model contest? All you have to do is like and share the picture on facebook. That's it.
Bikinis are not my friends. I don't like to be reminded that my body does not conform to the Barbie Doll standard of long, lean legs and arms, flat stomach, nipped in waist, round, firm bottom, and large, firm breasts. Since my body housed three human beings, my skin is forever striped with those less than pretty markings that indicate that my body was used to incubate small children. It's stretched out too far to ever be able to return to its former shape, no matter how much weight I lose. Thanks to my body's inability to push those little rugrats into the world, I have an ugly scar on my belly that forms a ridge and "shelf" of scar tissue in an area of my anatomy ironically named "bikini area," therefore ensuring that I will never look attractive in that type of swimwear again. Such is life. I would never trade my little humanoids for anything, not even a Barbie Doll body.
And now I find myself in the strange predicament of needing to buy a bikini and wear it in public. Jennie, you are fucking nuts. You are now over forty, overweight, and have no hope of winning this thing. Yes, but in addition to being fucking nuts, I'm also stubborn as hell. I will not bow out gracefully. I will crash and fucking burn like a fucking comet. So off to the mall I went in search of a bikini.
I took my nineteen year old daughter with me, because she will not sugar coat anything. She's a lot like her mama. I had been thinking about what type of bikini might look least hideous on me, and I decided that maybe a retro 50s, high waisted bottom might work best. I found one that I liked. It was black with white dots, skulls, which I love, and red roses. Perfect! Just my style! I tried it on. NOPE. Not flattering whatsoever. I looked like I was wearing Granny's underpants. My daughter didn't have to say a word. I could read on her face that they were not right. Back to the drawing board.
We looked at the display again, and saw one with a skirted bottom. The skirt was not as long as I would have liked it to be, but it was worth a try. It was green, but at this point, I was more concerned about the shape than the color. It was a green that I can live with, a deep emerald, not at all a sickly shade of electric lime that would render my complexion a tone reminiscent of liver damage. I went into the dressing room and wiggled my big butt into it. Not….. horrible…. I think. I put the top on, adjusted the girls so I wouldn't give my poor daughter a show she didn't want to see, (she's suffered enough, poor kid) and called her in. Again, my girl didn't have to say a word. An expression of approval graced her countenance. It does not disguise the fact that I'm shaped like Barney the dinosaur, but it is the most flattering. I decided that this was the one, and was quite thankful that it's not Barney purple. What comes next?
Shoes, of course. Logic dictates that if you are wearing a bikini, you must also wear high heels. Because that makes sense. Everyone knows that. Off we go in search of ankle breakers.
We see across the way a shop that, for as long as I can remember, has catered to the fashion needs of teenage girls, me included in my teenage years. However, not for much longer, as this store is going out of business. Brightly colored signs indicate that "EVERYTHING MUST GO!" and that items are discounted heavily. My kind of sale. There really isn't much left. I found about a dozen pairs of heels, and for some reason, most of them were in my size. I tried on a pair of cheap looking black, six inch heels. I felt so tall! I took a few steps, which was somehow hilarious to my kid. I'm so glad the girl with hair the color of a pink highlighter finds me amusing. (did you hear my eyes roll just then?) "Mom" she giggled, "you have to walk more than just a couple of 'deer steps.'" Deer steps??? *SIGH* Ok, deer steps. I guess I did look like Bambi on the ice. I tried my best runway walk, and that was even more amusing. The sales girl behind the counter did not give a fuck. I tried a few pairs, but decided that they were just too cheaply made to pay $7 a pair for anklebreakers. We then decided to look at the deeply discounted teenage fashion. I swear, that shit must have been the bottom of the barrel. How do people wear those things? Anyway, when we ran out of clothing to mock, we headed down to Payless.
As we walked in, the sales girl asked if she could help us. I explained to her that I was looking for a pair of heels. "What color?" I told her black, more than likely. She then asked how high a heel I wanted. I explained, "You probably will find this hard to believe, but I am in a poster model competition." She didn't flinch! I like this lady! "I know I'm not going to win this, but I'm going do my best. I need a pair of heels that are, well…… slutty looking." I continued, looking for a reaction. She sprang into action retrieving a pair of black, lace up booties with daggers for heels. They were perfect! I put them on and found them to be more comfortable than any of the other stripper shoes I had tried. Perfect! I thanked her profusely and walked back in forth in them, finding my way to a mirror. Then, I saw something I wasn't expecting. My calves look huge. I mean bodybuilder huge. Walking in those shoes, my calf muscles, which have always been big and strong, look like deadly fucking weapons. *SIGH* awesome.
Later that evening, I showed my dear husband my freakish calves. I simply stood on my toes in the same manner as wearing six inch heels. He said, "Stop flexing them. They will look different when they aren't flexed." If only it worked that way, Honey.