Trauma at Target, or, An Idiot Girls Moment

I went to Target last night to try and find a bikini bottom that fit my bottom. Yes, just the bottom.

You see, I have two "tankini's" One is so old I bought it at Bradlee's which went out of business years ago. The other is about two years old, maybe three and I can't find the bottom. The old Bradlee's one has held up surprisingly well, which shouldn't surprise me really since I only swim once or twice a year.

The problem is the bottom of the old one fits perfectly and the top doesn't fit at all, and the newer top and old bottom don't match. This is fine when swimming in the privacy of someones pool or up in Maine at the lake, but not so good for water parks and other extremely public places, which is where I thought I would be spending tomorrow when my sister mercifully made other plans for a family gathering.

So I find myself at Target. I love Target. I love the fact that they have no crappy music filling our ears with the purgatorial qualities of muzaak. It's a quiet shopping oasis in this mixed up crazy world we live in and I like it that way. I like it so much that I feel the need to mention it everything I write about this store in the event that someone in charge of this policy comes across this blog post. I feel very strongly about my quiet shopping experience. It is the number one reason why I shop there.

Anywho... I am in Target and I am dismayed to discover, as I do every time I need to find a swimsuit on a deadline, and it's always on a deadline, that there is an almost non-existent selection of bathing suits in whatever store I happen to be looking in. It's only the middle of July and I remember too late that I you don't have your swim suit bought and paid for in say, April, you are shit out of luck. Last night was such an occasion.

I recall trying to find a bathing suit to take on my honeymoon in August twelve years ago and finding a poorly fitting leopard print travesty and the fore mentioned tankini from Bradlee's that ended up wearing for years. The last time we were invited to spend a weekend in Cotuit with Bill & Amanda and I needed a bathing suit STAT. This time it's for a planned family reunion at a water park which it turns out I don't really need after all. I do need something for next weekend in Maine though so I found a black bottom with a skirt attached. It's hideous, but it gets the job done. Sadly, it is not on sale.

In a moment of inspiration I wander over to the fitness department and find a pair of black spandex short-shorts and a jogging tank made of swimsuit like material with a built in bra. EUREKA! This should do the trick. I take my loot and head for the dressing room.

The dressing room is full of teenage girls and the scent of tangerine bubble gum overwhelms me. The smell is sickeningly sweet and cloying. I head into a cubicle and lock myself in and find myself engulfed in a new odor: urine.

Why does this dressing room smell of urine? It's not a restroom... there are some rather fine public restrooms in the front of the store. I asked Ron why would a dressing room smell like pee and he said quite seriously, "Because people pee in them."

Let me tell you tangerine bubble gum and piss make a rather nauseating combination.

I investigate the other dressing stalls and find them all full and go back into my urinal to disrobe, breathing through my mouth the entire time. I stand before the mirror, legs bare and stare in horror.

When did my thighs start to look like that? I moan and say to myself, what is this? My clothes at home still fit... most of them anyway. I tell myself it's the crappy lighting in the store... but I know deep that it is not. I am afraid all the weight I lost while attending school has officially returned and brought friends with it. I am lumpy and I feel a little upset with myself, slightly traumatized even.

I vow right then and there that the soda I had earlier in the day is my last one. I swear I will not order a large sub the next time I go to the sub shop, or better yet, stop going to the sub shop. I kiss off my occasional pms fueled indulgence of a dark chocolate Milky Way bar. If I could marry a Milky Way Bar I would, I love them that much.

Then I went straight back over to the fitness section and select a pair of sweatpants and new yoga pants with the intent of getting them sweaty. I know as well as many of you folks do that the only way these sweatpants will absorb any actual sweat is if I sunbath in them in August in Florida while drinking hot tea with jalapenos, but it makes me feel better to put them in my cart.

I also know that Ron likes my thighs just the way they are... attached to my ass, and that's all that really matters. And I have comfy new pants to sit on the sofa in while I eat my ice cream.