Last weekend, I decided to head over to the mall after work to invest in a little retail therapy, and the first thing to catch my eye was the dazzling assortment of this year’s swimsuits on display.
More specifically, it was the brightly colored string bikinis tied around the faceless, limbless, oatmeal-colored mannequins suspended from the ceiling that caught my eye. The plastic torsos were designed with the perfect measurements and womanly proportions in mind — at least according to conventional standards — and they were rocking those ruffled bikinis.
Hesitantly, I walked over to see more. There had to be some swimsuits that offered more coverage — the tummy-sucking, boob-lifting, butt-hiding kind of coverage — than the ones on the mannequins, right?
I picked up a few that caught my eye and headed to the fitting room, an odd mix of dread and anticipation churning in my stomach. For some reason, even after all these years — and all the thousands of disastrous trips to the fitting room — I never lost hope that one day, I would find the perfect swimsuit. And when that day arrived, the heavens would open up, the angels would rejoice, and I would feel beautiful.
Unfortunately, this was not that day.
Sweating and ill, I took the walk of shame out of the dressing room, seriously wondering what possessed me to enter it in the first place.
I suppose I can find a little comfort in knowing that men experience some of the same struggles with body image that ladies do. (Click here to see what I’m talking about.) Still, until guys are expected to traipse around all summer in a two-piece torture device, I won't be able to get behind the idea that the sexes are playing on two even fields.
Linsay Cheney Rudd is the editor of Connect Statesboro, and she loves hearing from readers! Get in touch with her at firstname.lastname@example.org.