Category: Uncategorized

You know the anticipation and delusions of grandeur one has before the arrival of a product one has ordered? Then you probably also know the disappointment, the letdown upon delivery of said item.

I wrote last week about the difficulty of finding a suit to fit my long torso body (link below) and that I had found something called the “extra high waisted skirted tankini bottom.” I hoped that this suit would be just the thing for me to wear to my water aerobics classes.

It is indeed high waisted. Very nicely so. No complaints there. And skirted. Boy! Is it ever skirted! I look like someone’s idea of what women in the 1900’s might have worn to the beach. Picture Shamu in a tea length gown.

Can swimsuits be altered? Could I take this to some knowledgeable seamstress and have the skirt shortened? I know nothing of these domestic goddess matters. All I know is I’m not venturing outside in this monstrosity.

In addition, I thought I had ordered the suit bottom in black. The description said “blackberry” which my mind translated to “black,” like “sage” is green, and “sea foam” is green, and “yucca” is green. Apparently, blackberry is a deep purple. It’s certainly not black. If the clever marketing folks would standardize their descriptions online shopping would be much simpler.

So I’m still sidelined from water aerobics. Even if I can’t have the suit altered I think I’ll keep it. Halloween is just around the corner, and I feel sure I could press it into use as a costume: Shamu? Prune in a skirt?

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2014/09/03/swimsuits-revenge-of-the-long-torso/

Several years ago I was diagnosed with early stage breast cancer. I can say this easily now, but when I first heard the word “cancer” attached to my name I pretty well lost it. My doctor’s nurse called and told me over the phone–not at all the best way to get the news–and then I got to tell Studly. I did fine with the “I have” part, but when I came to the c word, I got all choked up. He cradled me like a baby while I sobbed for a long, long time.

A diagnosis of cancer is one of those events that makes you go through an endless list of what ifs. “What if it’s worse than they think? What if I lose my breast? What if I lose Studly because I lose my breast? What if I don’t lose my breast, but it’s disfigured? What if I, dare I think it…die? What if my grandchildren don’t remember that I ever existed and loved them with my whole heart and then some? What if no one cares?” I got pretty maudlin, to say the least.

When I had to inform folks about my diagnosis I couldn’t say cancer without breaking down. I’m a word person. Words have so much power in my world, but I didn’t want this stupid word to have power over me, to make me bawl like a baby every time it was uttered. It seemed like the key lay in disarming the power of the word. But how?

One morning as I showered I pondered my inability to say the damned word and thought to myself, “Woman! Get a grip!” So as I showered I began saying “Cancer, Cancer, Cancer,” over and over again. At first I cried, my tears mingling with the warm cascade of water from the shower, but before long “cancer” became no more than two meaningless syllables. No power, no tears. I got out of the shower and tested the word. “Cancer.” Nothing. No tears, no what ifs.

After that I only had one more crying jag over my cancer. It wasn’t when I was at the doctor’s office discussing my options. There were no tears when I met with the oncologist or the radiologist. Of all places I broke down at the chiropractor’s office. He’d asked me how I was doing, and trying to be funny I quipped, “Oh, I’m fine except I have a slight case of cancer.” Then I dissolved into hiccuping sobs.

The poor guy stood there patting me on the back and seeking to reassure me until I could compose myself. I got more than my money’s worth that day–an adjustment and a back rub–how’s that for manipulation?

It has been more than seven years since my diagnosis. I came through the lumpectomy and radiation no worse for the wear, and all of my what ifs were for naught. Yea me! I can still talk about my experience tear-free. I do get pretty weepy over cute kitten pictures on the internet, though. Maybe I should try the repetition therapy: “Kitten, Kitten, Kitten.” So far, so good.

The rest of this post is a Public Service Announcement: Ladies, schedule your annual mammogram (that’s how my lump was found). Gentlemen, have that annual prostate exam! Everyone over 50, colonoscopies save lives!

That is all. Carry on.

Peace (and good health), People!

The swimsuit I’ve worn for the last three years has worn out. Completely. The picture accompanying my blog post today is of my hand showing through the threadbare material of said swimsuit. I’d like to say I’m the one who first noticed that I was pretty much showing up at the pool naked, but my water aerobics instructor had to point it out to me.

“Miss Leslie,” she said, “do we need to take you shopping for a new suit?”

Blithely unaware I answered, “I’m going to wait until I’ve lost 10 pounds before I buy a new one.”

“Honey, you don’t have that long.” She pulled me aside and explained that I was darned near exposing parts better left hidden.

Oh! Alrighty then! I guess I should look in a mirror more often.

Buying a suit is easier said than done. Once I was young. Skinny. Firm. Once, buying a swimsuit was no big deal. I’d simply head to J.C. Penney or Sears, pick out, try on, and pay for a cute two piece suit, and drive to the pool. Total time: 20 minutes or less. Those days are but a distant, fond memory. I spend more than 20 minutes just trying to wriggle into a suit at this stage of my life.

Nevertheless, I have to shop for a new suit if I want to keep up with water aerobics classes without being arrested on charges of public indecency. The good part is since summer is coming to an end all the suits are on clearance. The bad part is that the remaining suits are either XXXS or XXXL. I fall somewhere in between, although, admittedly closer to the XXXL end of the spectrum.

I am blessed with a long torso, so any one piece suits in my size can only be worn if I assume a pronounced slouch–all hunched over, boobs nearly touching my knees, muffin top squirting out to either side. So very attractive.

Now, there is that glorious invention known as the tankini. Surely I could wear one of those. But, no. Remember the long torso thing I’ve got going on? Most tankinis are made for regular torsoed women, so when I try one on there remains a two inch gap twixt bottom and top. Talk about flattering! Picture a pooch of flubber encircling my midriff like the rings of Saturn. No Sports Illustrated cover for me this year.

I’d ordered my old suit, the one now relegated to the scrap pile, from Land’s End several years ago. So, online I go. Wonder of wonders, they still carry that style, but they are out of my size except in combat-ready green. No thanks.

But they do have an intriguing new product: the extra high-waisted skirted tankini bottom. Just the name of it took up three lines of copy, so it’s got to be good! It’s $75, but it might be the answer to a long torso problem. So, I bought a tankini top with a decent bra (another issue I face) and have the bottoms on order. I’ll review the results and get back to you.

In the meantime. Does anyone have ideas for recycling an old swimsuit? Almost transparent, but the straps are still good. Slingshot? Bungee cords?

Peace, People!

Studly and I are having an argument. He maintains that most information is useless. I say there is no such thing as useless information.

According to Studly, most information does not directly impact the life of the average person rendering it of no consequence. I say, if information affects even one person, then it cannot be described as useless.

To prove his point Studly wants to go through the headlines: Kyle Orton retired, then in a couple of weeks un-retired. Joan Rivers is unconscious. Kylie Jenner ripped her jeans and her dark nails were a flop. Mark Wahlberg is not attending his brother Donnie’s wedding.

Studly says the information related in these stories has no bearing on him, or indeed on anyone not immediately involved in the lives of these people; ergo, it is classified as useless.

I intend to disprove his point. Let’s take the Kyle Orton headline. First, Kyle retired from his position as a backup QB with the Dallas Cowboys. That had an impact on his family. Perhaps they had to tighten their belts for a couple of weeks, so they stopped adding to the Consumer Spending Index. Perhaps they had to let their housekeeper and gardener and nanny go. This raises the unemployment figures for the month. That in turn causes uncertainty in the economy. That directly affects me.

I win.

It’s my blog after all.

Peace, People!

P.S. I’m not sure I could have come up with an argument for the Kylie Jenner bit. Who the heck is Kylie Jenner anyway?