Of Boobs and Bathing Suits

It was a surprise — the opportunity to go to Orlando was presented to me on a Wednesday night, with the flight leaving less than 48 hours later on Friday morning. A pleasure trip, no less! Just a few days of lounging by the pool and reading. Heaven!

Joyfully I packed. Jeans, t-shirts, undies, and then… oh gracious, where are those bathing suits?

The last time I’d gone swimming was when I’d traveled for my brother’s wedding, nearly two years before. I’d put on some weight, but hey — bathing suits stretch, right? Like, that’s the whole point! No worries. I’d be swimming like a beautiful, happy manatee in no time.

So I rummaged through my closet, found a handful of assorted swimsuits, and pulled on the bottoms of one of my Unapologetic Plus-Sized Bikinis (TM).

SUCCESS! They fit!

Now, on to the top!…

Oh. Oh no. Noooooooooo.

My boobs spilled, Blob-like, over the cups in the center and on the sides, making my top half resemble a popped can of Pillsbury biscuit dough. I STILL do not understand how my weight fluctuates throughout my entire body, but my boobs never get smaller. The band size may shrink, but my mammaries only know one setting: BIGGER, BIGGER, BIGGER… like some kind of bizarre porno fantasy from the mind of a horny 12-year-old.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

Okay. Okay. No big deal, right? It’s March! Swimsuits are already in stores to scare the literal shit…