Mom Gone Wild

I am assuming the court order against me ever wearing my swimsuit in public in the city of Wrightsville Beach has now expired, as Homeland Security did not seem to bat an eye when I booked tickets last week for our family to return to the sun, sand, and surf this summer…

Two summers ago, Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina, home of Trolley Stop hot dogs and Boombalatti’s ice cream (I assume God serves this in heaven), I was boogie boarding with the family. On a family vacation. With family values. At a family beach.

Our kids, typically landlocked here in Midwest College Town, were having a blast playing in the ocean for the first time, and their parents were having a blast playing like kids. In fact, Dave and I had taken to watching each other ride waves in on the boogie boards, offering a 1-10 rating based on style, distance, and duration.

It was my turn. With an agreed upon three waves per turn, we quickly learned to choose wisely. Too much crest and the ride would be over before reaching sand; too little crest and the crash could end up waterboarding the wave rider.

After a few hops in the water, I spotted my final wave for my turn. I checked the beach to make sure Dave was watching. He gave me a thumbs-up. I waited, watching it roll and grow to the perfect size, with the perfect speed, and made a perfect launch into the oncoming wave.

It carried me with increasing velocity, faster and faster toward dry land. I could feel the broken up seashells grazing my knees and the water beginning to swell all around me, but I stayed steady on the board, riding that wave onto dry sand with one final push from a second wave behind.

Water splashed all around my face as I came to a stop. Stumbling up and staggering to a stand, I could see Dave down shore about 20 yards, thumb up and smiling as I wiped the salt water from my eyes.

I waved back, wiping more water out of my face, trying to keep my contacts from falling out.

Dave motioned to me, pointing to his chest with pride, as I pulled my wet hair back from my face with both hands.

I had never seen that signal before.

I was pretty sure he had just given me the highest score ever for boogie boarding.

Finally my contacts cleared up enough to see what he was doing. He was still vigorously pointing to his chest with one hand, and with the other hand, he was pointing at me.

I looked down.

My right breast was hanging completely out of my push-up tankini. I was Janet Jackson, and the ocean was my Timberlake.

(Gentlemen, do not get too excited and/or disappointed that you missed it. I am a 34 A. That’s “A,” as in, “Awww… isn’t it so cute that she can fit back into her Jr. High bra after breastfeeding four kids?”)

I immediately tucked the little runaway into place and ran to Dave, who was laughing so hard he had started to cry.

“No one saw,” he tried to say with a straight face. “No one except that guy,” he pointed to a man a few yards behind him who turned his head as soon as I glanced his way.

“I want to go home,” I cringed.

“You can’t go home,” Dave said, “you just made his day.”

I looked again, and the man raised his plastic tumbler to me.

Awesome. I just hope he isn’t expecting a repeat performance this summer.

Bringing (Beach) Sexy Back

Apparently Victoria’s Secret sells a Brazilian bikini, I assume to complement one’s Brazilian wax. How I know this is part of a long story that ends with me accepting the fact that I’m gonna need a lot more than an intimate wax job to pull off a string bikini.

My trusty ol’ tankini had been showing signs of age for some time. I suppose I had too, which is why this summer I decided to invest in a new swimsuit. I needed one that would show the world thirtysomething really is the new twentysomething and, unlike my current one, keep me from inadvertently exposing my top half upon emerging from churning waters (my apologies to anyone I may have offended/confused/horrified in Wrightsville Beach last summer).

My first and only trip to the mall did not go well. I gave my children (yes, they came too) strict instructions not to bring me any suit unless it was tighter than sausage casing on the bottom and padded like a Tempurpedic mattress on top. They took their mission very seriously. In less than 10 minutes my four kids had felt up the cups of every suit on every rack, shouting “Are these big enough, Mom?” from all corners of the sales floor. As stealth as they tried to be, I sensed from the glaring looks on my fellow shoppers that a quick exit was in order. We left empty-handed, though well before security closed in.

I returned home defeated but soon found assurance I would never have to shop for a swimsuit in public again. For waiting for me in my mailbox was the Victoria’s Secret Swimsuit Catalog.

And Vickie was offering a Miracle – a Miracle Suit, that is. One that would push, pull, or drag my anatomy back to its starting point using any Miratex, Ipex, or industrial-grade underwire necessary. One that would seamlessly conceal all evidence of my body’s stint as host to 36 pounds of humans and create an illusion greater than anything Doug Henning could even dream of: Cleavage. Making twin hills and a valley out of dried up flatlands.

But the best part of all was that this Miracle would be delivered to my door, where I could try it on in the privacy of my own gently-lit bathroom. No more scouring the racks only to stand barely-clad and whimpering in front of the fitting room mirror for me. In fact, with Victoria, I could confidently and without fear order any swimsuit I liked, all I had to do was look at the pictures to see what these things look like on everyday, average women.

I immediately got to work, studying each swimsuit, weighing every feature. But even after two semesters of college physics, I still couldn’t figure out how these things were going to work their magic on me. Did I need moderate coverage or a mid-rise scoop? Was the removable wireless push-up padding going to help me pass myself off as a B-cup or did I need the underwire with secured gel-packs to make that dream come true? Am I really ready for fringes and rhinestones or should I push it no further than paisley print? Retro, modern, Greek? Bi-kini, mono-kini, mar-tini?

Overwhelmed, I consulted with my husband. He seemed to show great interest in my search, in fact he couldn’t put the catalog down. “How about these?” he suggested, pointing to one swimsuit with two flotation devices busting out of the top. “What? Where are you going? She looks really happy in that one!” he called after me as I snatched my catalog back and headed to the next room.

After days of searching, envisioning -- and furiously doing crunches -- I finally ordered a few pieces; each promised to push up and hold in all that tried to slide south. Victoria had me convinced that 2008 was to be my summer of “beach sexy”; all I had to provide was a sultry smile, a setting sun, and a credit card number.

Five business days later the FedEx man was at the door with my Miracle and prophetic words, “Good luck ma’am!”

That night after dinner (which I hardly touched), when everyone was well-occupied with Guitar Hero, I snuck upstairs to my room, locked the door behind me, and carefully pulled out each piece as if it were the Shroud of Turin. Only these pieces were waterproof, brightly colored, and in no way bore the image of the face of Jesus. But I prayed over them, all the same. Then I slipped into the closet to change and strutted out to the mirror fully expecting to find a “beach sexy” Julie staring back.

Oh, but the Julie in the mirror looked nothing like the models in the catalog! I grabbed the page I’d marked thinking I must have done something wrong but found I had the thing looped, lifted, and tied just like the lady in the picture. Unlike her, though, I was grossly distorting the tiny floral design on the fabric with my assets large and small.

“How could this be happening?” I asked myself out loud through my quivering bottom lip. I tried sucking in my breath even harder, arching my back, striking pose after pose, but nothing worked. I took a closer look at the picture and had a revelation. “Wait a minute," I calculated, "it’s gonna take three trips to the plastic surgeon and a diet of wheat grass and tapeworms to look like that!" I trudged out of the bathroom and flopped down on my bed. Victoria has a secret, alright, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got it figured out.

***Editor’s Note: Last week Julie found a non-offensive “beach cute” suit at Dick’s Sporting Goods and wants to pass along Dick’s now has all suits 50% off. She also cautions that the swimsuit fitting rooms are located dangerously close to the gun and ammo counter and recommends popping that Prozac before you go.