Tag Archives: summer

Letting It Go: A Birthday Bash Tale

18 Aug
olaf

Olaf is property of the Disney folks. This image can be found over at LetsPartyShop’s Etsy page. Click to check ’em out. 

On Sunday, August 14th, 2016, a bathing suit was yanked up my torso, giving a slight smooth to my otherwise blatant belly bulge, yanked over my shoulders to pancake my mediocre breasts within, and waddled out with my gelatinous, thundering thighs below into a community pool. It had been five years since I’d been in a body of water, but it was my niece’s fifth birthday, dammit, and I wasn’t going to infest her precious little baby brain with self-consciousness and terms like “body positivity,” “goal weight” and “thigh gap.”

This was a big win for me.

I hated the idea of a pool party. Really – why, OH GOD WHY, did that have to be the location? My aversion to watery outings isn’t just due to the need to sport a swimsuit; it’s compounded by a host of other awful traits that recreational water activities feature: hordes of people, gaggles of children, metric tons of sand, wide open spaces, bright blazing sunlight, and a general lack of cats, video games, and pillows. To add pain to pressure, she had chosen the most obvious of themes: Frozen. How, after three complete rotations of the earth, little nuggets across the country are still holding on to Elsa and Olaf with their tiny, grabby hands, is beyond me.

Back in the day I recall many a family outing where I didn’t care how much grease slathering I had to do to get out in the water – and no amount of sand in my danger zones could stop me from burying my entire self on the shore. We used to have regular family outings at a local dam and I would get so excited I would nearly vomit before we even got to the car to leave. (I didn’t get out much as a child.) But now, every element of the pastime annoys me and I’ve actively and successfully avoided beaches, pools, lakes, and ponds. I will, from time to time, indulge in kayaking on a river. Because it is a solo activity, void of sand, and can be done in shorts and a t-shirt. If a child approaches me, I can swiftly paddle away.

Alas, when my niece looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and curls to match and asked me if I would come to her birthday party, I knew my days of comfort and curmudgeonry were at an end.

I considered just staying out of the water all day. There are pavilions and grass patches, and a variety of perimeter sections at a pool, and on the right day with only a slight amount of people, I imagined that curling up on a bench and reading a book would be kind of nice. I might even feel a little outdoorsy. But this was a birthday party for a five-year-old. There would be no reading, no sitting, and no relaxation of any kind. We had dibs on the giant, central water slide and I knew I would have two choices: go down it twenty-two times in a row, or go down in her memory as the worst of all the aunts.

Having chosen the former, I found myself in the bathing suit section of Target at 10pm the night prior, picking over the clearance section of the suits that were left behind. Mid-August is a beach-shopper’s wasteland, with mismatched and poorly-sized two-pieces, one-pieces in animal prints, and a handful of misshapen cover ups.

I had twenty dollars, a black tank top at home I wasn’t sure even fit me, and a modicum of chutzpah.

I also had the Dave, who found me picking over the beachgoers’ desert with my grumplepuss face on. I had acquired two bottoms I was sure wouldn’t fit me, and a cover-up I was secretly hoping I could pair with jean shorts for the day if it seemed my niece was suddenly lukewarm about my presence and I could cut out pool time. I knew that was unlikely.

Dave was lovely, as Daves are, and encouraged me to go try things on. It made a lot more sense than my approach, which was to stare at things and pull on them until I gleaned whether a six dollar piece of fabric would really make my ass virtually unnoticeable. The first piece was an absolute no. It had this extra band of fabric above the top line of the bottoms that was an attempt at some style, but it was made of elastic and only served to divide my singular fat roll into two distinct, smaller rolls. That was, perhaps, a bonus, as it made the second pair I tried on appear almost flattering – returning my belly bulge to its original full glory.

I stared at my too-large hind-end in the too-small bottoms and told myself that this was the year of #selflove. That lighting at department stores was less flattering than sunlight. That my tank top at home would help cover up some of what was now flailing about in the fitting room where I only had my t-shirt bra for coverage. That five-year-olds don’t see fat. Try as I might to believe the pick-me-ups, I really couldn’t fathom walking around in those bottoms. They left very little to the imagination, and I prefer people to imagine me majestic.

I must admit that a portion of my hesitation was due to the superior genetic makeup of my sister-in-law’s family. She is one of twelve, and the parents who spawned them created a unique and superior mix of genes that led to tan skin, fantastic hair, high percentages of muscle composition, and a disposition for sportiness that hatched a litter of chiseled beasts. It’s a genetic unfairness that is to blame for my five-year-old niece’s washboard abs. The niece for whom I would have to hope beyond hope that when I woke up, I would get the gumption to squeeze my pasty, puckered behind into a too-small budget bikini bottom.

It was 9am when I rolled out of bed, threw on the suit, stood in the mirror at various angles while repeating body positive mantras, and hopped in the family wagon to meet my niece’s pool posse. I told myself I would find the magic on the way. I have a theater degree, for Pete’s sake, and I was going to use it to play the part of someone who gave no damns.

We pulled into the parking lot at exactly the same time as my brother, and the excitement coming from the vehicle was palpable. It was stacked from front to back with all the trappings for a Frozen-themed birthday pool party, and somewhere smushed between were my nephew, the birthday girl, and my little baby pudding niece. I went right for Pudding Niece. We were as one this day – our thighs were glorious, we needed to be near food at all times, and we probably should have stayed out of the water.

It took all of five minutes after getting my wristband on and pushing the stroller inside before Birthday Niece requested my presence at the water slide. It was time.

I cued up some motivational 80’s pop for my own personal montage in my mind, and shut down the give-a-damns. I greased up in SPF 50, got any trace of makeup off my face, smoothed down my peach fuzz legs, and chub rubbed my way out to a terribly exciting looking slide. Birthday niece’s grandmother was poolside – one half of the dynamic gene duo that led to the long-legged hatchlings scattered about the pool. She was a wondrous gazelle. I carried on.

I could feel my butt jiggling. I feared my cheeks would shimmy their ways to each opposite side and my too-small bottoms would remain lodged in the in-between. I thought about how my top was pulled down slightly too far in order to eliminate the possibility of midriff; I wondered if my unsupported breasts would rip free of their burden at the bottom of the slide. I remembered my mantras. I climbed the slide. Birthday Niece and Smiley Nephew were in tow. They were awful thrilled that I was joining them and their little wobbly friends. I coached them through the launch procedure, as it seemed the unenthusiastic high schooler’s barely-muttered “…go…” didn’t quite to the trick. They took off, grins blazing. They reached the bottom with splashes much greater than their sizes. They were slowly brought to the top thanks to their arm floaties and life vests. They waited for Aunt Jackie to descend.

In that moment I didn’t think about how anyone else perceived me but them. It didn’t even matter what I thought. All that mattered was that I be there, and that I enjoy myself with them – and there wasn’t any room for my adult, media-contrived misgivings. I thought about my nephew’s big, bright smile and how he needed a little scoot to get down the tunnel. And Birthday Niece, who left her tiara poolside so she could have maximum funtimes. And Pudding Niece, who had big, beautiful thighs, and dimples on her shoulders, and was a glorious little creature who would grow up to be beautiful not because of her superior genes, but because every family member she has is going to affirm for her that however which way she grows, she is majestic.

And I launched and splashed.

And I launched and splashed again.

And I launched and splashed twenty more times, with Birthday Niece in tow.

Surprisingly enough, it was a big bucket of fun. As with most things I do, it was a reminder that just because I hate something at first doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. After all, I hate almost everything at first. And it reminded me that sometimes you’ve just gotta let all the stupid, silly hangups go for something bigger than yourself.

Or in my case – three smaller things. 

Strumpets in the Summertime: Part Deux

22 May

I was all geared up to write you a poem about the oncoming summer. It was something to do with the good Lord protecting us from the inevitable onslaught of boobly boobs and private unmentionables coming our way with the heat. Spring has been hot and muggy, and while prefer it to the bitter cold I am never quite prepared for how bare-ass naked other human beings can be in the wide open public with complete and total comfort.

But as it turns out, I’ve already done that one. It was called Strumpets in the Summertime and was one of my 365 musings in the 2011th year of our Lord. So here I am, getting all old and cranky with the same, repetitive complaints about humanity. I guess that sums up my life experience to date: I was simply born a cranky, old woman. I like to think I just matured at a terrifyingly rapid pace.

I should note that Dave caught me checking a girl out the other day (boobs are magnetic, I don’t care who you are) and said it’s a frequent observation he makes about me. So I guess I’m the one needing protection from The Almighty this hot, muggy spring. 

May He be with us all.

Strumpets in the Summertime

 Is it just me or are clothes being made smaller and sluttier?

That has to be the only reason it’s acceptable for all these body parts to be out on display.  It’s not even summer and all the gals in the city are free-flying with their anatomy out in the sunlight for all to see.  Tiny little short shorts, dresses with dangerously high hems, and low, low, low cut blouses.

How, exactly, am I supposed to compete with that?

I don’t really have any good ideas.  I mean, I’ll put on a dress but I’m not about to approach looking like a lady of the night when I do it.  Quite frankly, I was raised a tomboy and the fact that I’m willing to wear dresses or skirts of any kind should have everyone’s mouths agape.  When I reach for a makeup brush, people should have near-heart attacks.

Or at least they would be if there weren’t five girls within a 50 foot radius at all times with their legs and arms and boobly-boobs on display.

It’s not really a matter of competition.  After all, I’ve got a handsome guy by my side and I don’t really have any interest in attracting anyone’s attention but his.  But holy cow if I were him I’d have a hard time paying attention to me.

Since I’m unwilling to go the way of sluttery, I’m going to have to think of something else.  Maybe I could always smell like something nice.  Not flowers or musk – I need something that competes with tittery.  What’s a good scent to get a man’s attention? Bacon? 

I don’t know that would help my cause to be associated with cooked pig.

Why isn’t there already some sort of scent out there to assist in these situations?  Perhaps I should bottle something myself and label it as strumpet defense.   The commercial could feature a bunch of strumpets (naturally) all dressed up in their strumpet clothes (of course) and a decent-looking-but-not-blow-your-socks-off woman in the midst of them with an aura of light around her and a man staring at her with rapt attention.   And then some clever slogan. 

I’m going to have to work on that.   In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep making delicious food and being charmingly dorky.  Because those are really my only two redeeming qualities and I’m not sure the last one even counts.  I’m just trying to slip that in so I can make ‘redeeming qualities’ plural.

Maybe the bacon perfume isn’t such a bad idea after all.  It might remind him of pig, but that will remind him of food and that will remind him of me.  We can go from boob-gazing to food-grazing in 3 seconds flat and I can pull him out of the outside world of strumpetry and into our apartment where it’s safe and where I feed him and make him forget that there are attractive, young women absolutely everywhere.

Oh man- it’s only spring!  I’m gonna need one helluva plan when summer hits. 

The Quest for Air Conditioning: Cat 1, Dave 0

1 Aug

My cat is becoming a challenge.

Absolutely irate with the hot, AC-less apartment, he has begun to make us aware of his anger.

By inserting himself into the refrigerator every time it opens, for example.

In the little amount of time it takes me to open the door, grab ketchup, and splat it on something, I return to the fridge to find my cat inside it.   Even if he wasn’t in the kitchen to start with.  It’s like he’s telling me that if I don’t get an AC, he will continue to live his life in my fridge.   It was cute the first four times, but the first time I found cat hair on my water pitcher it lost all sense of adorableness.

Adorableness is a word.  It shouldn’t be; it seems strange.

Aside from trying to keep the Hobbesinator out of the refrigerator, I also have to put up with his recent pleas for escape.  You see, not too long ago, the Hobbeser ran away into the wild to give me quite a fright and himself a few wild nights to tell of in his later years.   My posts centered around the event for quite some time until I eventually found him mewing for us to save him from the cruel, cruel world outside Dave’s bedroom window. And ever since, he’s sat at the front door loudly yearning to return to the wild.

Dave’s been taking him on frequent walks to help him cope but they’re no good.  Mostly because cats are no good for walking.  It’s silly. But moreso because Hobbes is a little girly man and can’t deal with his emotions.  

Dave has also been holding the freezer door open and allowing Hobbes mini vacations in front of the cool freezer air.  I don’t know what’s better: finding cat hair on an ice cube or listening to him whine for hours on end.  You’d think he’d tucker himself out after a while and, like a baby, fall asleep when he’s had his share of crying.  But he’s more like a child who’s been left in the car while his mother goes grocery shopping – altering the sounds of his mew just to experiment with the range of his voice and keep himself entertained.

It’s intolerable.

I priced ACs the other day not for my charming Dave, but for my annoying cat.  Isn’t that sad?  Dave’s been ready for me to cave for weeks now and I haven’t budged.   Turns out all he had to do was sit in the same spot and badger me with annoying whinnies. 

Let’s hope he doesn’t take that as a cue for future endeavors. ♣

Cat + Fridge

I’m Being Thrifty and Autumn Is Coming

23 Jul

In order to achieve my upcoming super epic Lollipop Tuesday post, I had to pony up for a hotel room in the heart of good ol’ Virginny.   

It’s incredible how my experience of hotel rooms has changed as of late.  Since I’ve entirely nixed television from my life and I refuse to put air conditioning in the apartment, an evening in a hotel is like a venture into another world.  

A world where I’m not irritable and uninformed.

It might actually be kind of nice if I didn’t have to pay for Internet, didn’t always have strangers in the hall, and had a place to put leftovers.  Now that’s not winter, I can’t just throw them on the window sill.  It’s unfortunate because I love those opportunities.  It makes me feel like there are rewards to my intellect.

Really.

There’s always something I really need at a hotel that I didn’t bring with me and could really, really use.  Like last night when I ordered one of those freak pizzas that have a tiny little baby slice on one side and an enormous mutant piece on the other.   If I’m at my house and for some reason am without something I need, I can come up with alternatives.  I may not have Pepto Bismol, but I’ve got baking soda.  Or I can’t find a toothpick, but I’ve got a paper clip.   But when I’m in a hotel and I need a freaking knife, there’s absolutely nothing that can be done short of going down to the hotel bar and requesting one outright.    I have no ability to improvise. 

In a real fix, I could use materials from the complimentary Bible but that comes with a host of negative consequences.

air conditioner

Photo by Michelle Tribe. Click for credits.

Perhaps there was more refined improvisaiton, but I couldn’t think of it because my brain was in a state of shock from the air conditioned cold.

I’m not sure if I’ll survive much longer without the AC in my apartment if 1) the heat doesn’t stop getting all ‘hey look what I can do’ on us  and 2) I don’t stop visiting grocery stores/department stores/work/hotels that have air conditioning.   

I just have to tell myself I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.

 

“I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.   I’m being thrifty and autumn is coming.  I’m being thrifty….” 

Boobs in the Summertime

22 Jun

Sometimes boobs are the worst.

Like in the summertime.

Boobs are just terrible in the summertime.  Boobs,  booblie wooblies, chests, coconuts, ta-tunkas, bongos, dirty pillows…whatever you want to call them.  On a humid, summer day they’re just awful.  Either they get all hot and sweaty and completely drench your bra, or you’re free flying and the feeling of your moist skin on top of other moist skin is so incredibly uncomfortable.

I’m starting to think girls who have their chests out when it’s warm aren’t just doing it to be the centers of attention; they’re airing them out.  They’re letting their chests breathe a little so their bras don’t become a swampy marshland.

Disgusting.

Maybe I just hate sweating in general.  I’m so exhausted by it.  I’m constantly taking showers to feel fresh, in spite of the fact that I’m instantly sweating once I get out.  I try to turn up the cold water, but that nonsense only hangs around so long before pockets of dew develop on my upper cheeks.

It’s all downhill from there.

I refuse to give in to air conditioning.   I refuse to dig that gigantic monster out of the cellar only to have it devour my electric bill.   I refuse.   I can be strong. I can do this.  I can save hundreds if only I allow body time to readjust to the weather change.

Beginning of summer be damned. 

Today’s RAK: Preparing a small care package for a friend many miles away.

The Fan Theory

3 Jun
Fan

Photo from ryk_neethling. Click the image to check out his Flickr PhotoStream.

I need to figure out my dad’s fan theory.

Growing up, we had a few rules.  One was no light of any kind allowed.  Two was no people over ever.  And three was obey the fan theory.

I never really understood the intricacies of the fan theory but it had something to do with the careful balance of the number of fans in each window, the choice of windows that were open, and the location of the sun in the sky.  The algorithm is complicated somewhat with the addition of 2-way window fans, which featured both an ‘in’ and an ‘out’ switch.  One could have the fan blowing in four different combinations and I was never quite sure which was appropriate for the time of day and depending on which windows were open on the 2nd floor. 

But now that I’m all grown up and grumpy myself, I am attempting to endure the summer of 2011 without my AC again.  Given that this summer is significantly hotter than the last (as chronicled in my sweaty, complaining post yesterday), I’m going to need some kind of old-school game plan to battle the heat and I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to return to my roots.  I don’t know if dad’s fan theory ever made any of us cooler.  There’s a big chance that it was just a way for him to amuse himself and bark for us to run up and down the stairs, making fine adjustments to the angles of upright fans and closing windows with the urgency one musters in the face of a monsoon.

But I’m willing to try it anyway.

Because by golly I’m warm and I don’t want to lug that money-sucking, rattling, dripping, 100-pound air conditioner up and secure it in the window.  The fan theory will have to do.

I don’t think I have enough fans for the algorithm to properly function and since I live in an apartment complex, I don’t really have any control over which windows are open on which floors.  I’m pretty sure the fact that we’re all closed off in our little hutches within, the state of the higher floors would have nothing to do with the status of mine.

But then again, it’s a complicated and mysterious art.

I’ll do my best to work it out on my own with my 2-way window fan, a Vornado, and a Wind Machine, but if some kind of cool breeze magic doesn’t show up soon, I’m going to have to start knocking on neighbors’ doors and asking them if they know anything about dad’s fan theory and if they’d like to help. Maybe I’ll have a cat, some cookies, and an umbrella in tow so they don’t have to ask themselves if I’m crazy.

They’ll just know. 

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2011: The Summer of Raging Hellflames

2 Jun
It's so hot.......

Delicious fried sidewalk egg by Kate Ter Haar. Click the egg to check out her Flickr PhotoStream.

This is not spring; this is summer.

 This is all-out, balls-to-the-wall sweatylicious summertime and I am completely unprepared.   It came out of nowhere.  One day I was complaining about the constant rain and the next, Mother Nature was using the sun to pound down hellfire heat on my fragile, pasty skin.

I’m not ready for this.  Already, I am overwhelmed with the constant dew on my cheeks and the greasy, grimy feeling of my SPF moisturizer.  I’m so hot that my legs are sweating.  Every so often I have to take a moment to air out the backside of my knees – the armpits of the lower body.

This is my first summer with leather furniture.  It was a hand-me –down from a classy broad who gets tired of nice things quickly and I happily hauled it away to my home.  But now that my apartment is dripping in sweat and stench, I’ve begun to stick to the couch.

Quite literally – stick to it.

If I’m not paying attention or try to get up out of urgency, I have to do a double-take to make sure my skin isn’t still attached to the chair I’m getting up from.   It’s matched with a distinct ripping sound  – not unlike peeling the casing off a tightly wrapped sausage.

In this scenario, I am the sausage.

It’s just now the beginning of June and I’m starting to really dread what July may have in store.  I made it all last summer without air conditioning of any kind.  Dave and I happily hauled the AC out of the window and used a fan, embracing the heat and naturalism.  The car doesn’t have air conditioning either, so there was no need to worry about adjustment throughout the day.   A trip to the local grocery store, however, required a sweater. 

I don’t know if I can do that again this year.  2011 is apparently the year of the flaming, enraged, summer fire dragon and I don’t know that I can compete.    I’m too poor and stubborn to kick the AC on, too fat and flabby to frequent the pool, and too modest to walk around nearly naked.

One of those is going to have to give

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Strumpets in the Summertime

29 May

This super awesome pic that sums up how I feel about summer skin is called "Vyolet Vygas", by Larry Wentzel. Click to check out his Flickr PhotoStream.

Is it just me or are clothes being made smaller and sluttier?

That has to be the only reason it’s acceptable for all these body parts to be out on display.  It’s not even summer and all the gals in the city are free-flying with their anatomy out in the sunlight for all to see.  Tiny little short shorts, dresses with dangerously high hems, and low, low, low cut blouses.

How, exactly, am I supposed to compete with that?

I don’t really have any good ideas.  I mean, I’ll put on a dress but I’m not about to approach looking like a lady of the night when I do it.  Quite frankly, I was raised a tomboy and the fact that I’m willing to wear dresses or skirts of any kind should have everyone’s mouths agape.  When I reach for a makeup brush, people should have near-heart attacks.

Or at least they would be if there weren’t five girls within a 50 foot radius at all times with their legs and arms and boobly-boobs on display.

It’s not really a matter of competition.  After all, I’ve got a handsome guy by my side and I don’t really have any interest in attracting anyone’s attention but his.  But holy cow if I were him I’d have a hard time paying attention to me.

Since I’m unwilling to go the way of sluttery, I’m going to have to think of something else.  Maybe I could always smell like something nice.  Not flowers or musk – I need something that competes with tittery.  What’s a good scent to get a man’s attention? Bacon? 

I don’t know that would help my cause to be associated with cooked pig.

Why isn’t there already some sort of scent out there to assist in these situations?  Perhaps I should bottle something myself and label it as strumpet defense.   The commercial could feature a bunch of strumpets (naturally) all dressed up in their strumpet clothes (of course) and a decent-looking-but-not-blow-your-socks-off woman in the midst of them with an aura of light around her and a man staring at her with rapt attention.   And then some clever slogan. 

I’m going to have to work on that.   In the meantime, I’ll just have to keep making delicious food and being charmingly dorky.  Because those are really my only two redeeming qualities and I’m not sure the last one even counts.  I’m just trying to slip that in so I can make ‘redeeming qualities’ plural.

Maybe the bacon perfume isn’t such a bad idea after all.  It might remind him of pig, but that will remind him of food and that will remind him of me.  We can go from boob-gazing to food-grazing in 3 seconds flat and I can pull him out of the outside world of strumpetry and into our apartment where it’s safe and where I feed him and make him forget that there are attractive, young women absolutely everywhere.

Oh man- it’s only spring!  I’m gonna need one helluva plan when summer hits. 

 

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Blue Tiger Swimsuits: A Lesson in Common Sense

11 May

Every year around this time, I begin to swim through pages and pages of bathing suits, looking for one that will lift my boobs, flatter my bum, draw attention away from my legs, be gentle on my neck, stay on me when I cannonball, and make me look like a classic beauty.  

It never really works out.

I’ve tried to get around the problem(s) by working out the rest of the year so that when swimsuit season finally rolls around, I can wear whatever I like.  Each January, I have visions of me piling my arms high with every cute little something, trying them all on and not knowing which one to get.   I think of how I’ll be so hot and so carefree that I’ll have swimsuits of all shapes, sizes and colors.  I’ll wear them casually, as if they’re pajamas.  Everyone will wish they were so confident.

That never really works out either.

So yesterday I started my official swimsuit hunting season.  I began to browse through the Victoria’s Secret website (because their tops actually support you instead of making you feel like you’re made out of biscuit batter) and was affronted by a home page with plump, plucked vixens.  The company is pushing women to “make it a bombshell summer” and slathering their site with tan, beach blonde, curvy women.

Well, curvy for size zeros.

I began to sift through page after page of pink push-ups, lace, frill, and other sex traps.  I like to think that all the women I’m looking at are airbrushed so that the pixels from their waists get put on their chests, but I’ve seen the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show on TV and airbrushed muscles aside, those ladies don’t have much need.   Then, just as I slowly sank further into my feeling of sad, fatty-fatness, my eyes were struck by this swimming tribute to the 90’s: 

Image is property of Victoria's Secret photoshop wizards. Click to view their summer collection.

Um, I’m sorry – is that a wildcat?   Okay.  You took animal print, made it blue, and then actually put an animal on it.  Not even on the back or anything, just right there on her stomach, staring at God and everyone.  

There is absolutely no amount of photo magic that can make me appreciate this swimsuit.  I do not find this attractive.  In fact, it insults me that you’re trying to pawn this off amongst the rest of your line.  WHAT IS THIS?! It reminds me of wolf moon shirts.

As if pulling off a swimsuit at all weren’t hard enough, you actually expect women to be able to wear an animal on their stomachs at the beach?  My gut would make it look like the cheetah is leaping out at you.  Beach-goers everywhere would run from the gelatinous wildcat in sheer terror.

It doesn’t even look that good on the model.  In fact, she just kind of looks confused.   Maybe she’s trying to figure out if it’s just a joke or if they’re really going to take her picture of her in that mess.

Victoria’s Secret’s site refers to this swimsuit as “Tiger Print One-Piece”.   I thought they could get away with it because there are a few tiger stripes woven into the pattern.  But the bullet points describing the garment say “bold tiger graphic on front”.

I don’t see a tiger anywhere, actually.  Even if I could mistake that face for a tiger’s, I certainly can’t mistake the lack of stripes.  That’s not a tiger.  It in no way resembles a tiger, aside from the fact that a tiger also happens to be a wildcat.

Entirely disenchanted, I scrolled down the page to be greeted by a “Might We Also Suggest” section, which highlighted items that might compliment the suit well.  The signature piece: A long, solid white cover-up tunic that makes it so no one can even see the suit.  

Yes.  Yes, that’s an excellent suggestion.  Thank you.  

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