The Curse of the Bikini
June 05, 2008
I had a moment of truth with myself the other day. I was in the dressing room at Old Navy trying on bikinis. Walking in, I figured that I would go with the usual XS, cut small in the butt-area bottoms, because–and I'll only say this once–I've always been able to pull off skimpy Brazilian style bikinis. In fact, browsing through the choices, I wanted to dub Old Navy "Old Lady" because everything was conservative by my usual standards.
Unfortunately, the print that I liked the best–Zebra!–was all out of XS and was a fuller cut that I'm used to, but I decided that I'd take it into the dressing room, along with a few other pairs, just in case.
I tried on a pair of XS bottoms first. From the front, they didn't look that bad. Except I became concerned when I realized that the cute little gap that's usually visible between my thighs when I stand with my feet together is no longer there. When did that happen? I guess it explains the chaffing.
Then I tried to check out the back view but couldn't get a good look. So feeling rather clever, I pointed my camera phone over my shoulder and snapped a photo. When I looked at it, it was pretty bad and I thought maybe it was just the angle so I deleted it and took another. But that one was worse.
The painful truth? My ass–once voted in the Top Five in my entire high school–has gone to hell in a hand basket.
But in an act of supreme maturity, I admitted defeat and bought the bigger bottom.
A few days later while I was getting out of the shower, the hubby walked into the bathroom and exclaimed, "Whoa! I've never seen you with tan lines that… BIG before."
I tried to stop his heart with stink eye. When it didn't work, I asked him to buy me a weight bench. He asked why and I told him that I wanted to lift and restore my butt to the glory that it once was.
"Don't you think you're a little passed that?" he asked.
Screw stink eye—where's my rolling pin?
Over the weekend we searched garage sales for a weight bench. I didn't find one, but I did score a bunch of slightly baggy pants.
Today I went for a run at the track before work. Fifteen years ago I ran a mile in six minutes and four seconds. Not to brag, but I was the MIL champ in the 800-, 1,600- and 3,200-meter runs during my freshman year. Of course, I haven't run a full mile in a decade.
Nonetheless, I laced up my new shoes, plugged in my iPod and Nike run-o-meter and hit the rubber. For the first 200 meters I loved it. It felt good and natural, but it quickly became torturous. At 600 meters I scanned the track for people looking like they might know how to perform CPR.
According to my iPod (although I might have only gone three times around the track), I finished the mile in eight minutes, 19 seconds. I didn't pass out, although with all the red spots in my vision, I don't think that I should have gotten behind the wheel so soon.
When it was all said and done, I decided that setting a goal of logging 30 miles by the time I'm 30 is better than expecting to be able to run as fast as I did back in high school.
I always wanted to break six minutes anyway.
Starr Begley alternates between wanting to hug and strangle Anthony Pignataro. MTW
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