Wading my Way Through Swimsuitophobia

Swimsuits of Binibining Pilipinas 2008, by Paul Chin from Manila City, Philippines, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

Swimsuits of Binibining Pilipinas 2008, by Paul Chin from Manila City, Philippines, courtesy Wikipedia Commons.

“Mommy only goes in the water when we’re on vacation,” my son told his buddy when we ventured to the pool last week. The poor kid didn’t even realize I knew how to swim until a couple of years ago, when an unfortunate heat wave forced me to don a swimsuit for the first time since he was born.

It’s not that I don’t know how to swim; it’s just that I’ve got a bad case of swimsuitophobia. Scientists have still been unable to find a cure for this malady, despite my countless hours at the gym, and hundreds of pounds lost and found, and lost and found again, Swimsuitophobia affects nearly every woman I know. In fact, the fear of buying a bathing suit has replaced fear of public speaking and leaving the house without wearing clean underwear as the number one fear for women over age 30.

The rational side of me — yes, I do have one, dear — realizes that I’m a mom; my body has already done its duty for the survival of the species. I’m 30-12 years old, and I’ve got far more miles on me than were covered by warranty. Plus, I’m smart, and some people think I’m funny.

After all, it’s just a bathing suit, and everyone is going to be checking out the teenage girls anyway.

But still, the idea of putting on a bathing suit in public terrifies me. I can barely do it by myself.

Body image and Big Mac issues aside, I think the root of swimsuitophobia lies in the dressing rooms. Does anyone really want to know what their back fat looks like from 17 different angles? Think of all the homeless people Nordstrom’s could house if they had a companywide mandate to purchase only two mirrors per dressing room. As an added bonus, they would probably sell more bathing suits.

I was this close to whipping out my credit card and buying a tasteful turquoise suit there the other day. The color was perfect, and it seemed to fit most of my body just fine in the first 13 mirrors I looked at. Then lo and behold, parts of me oozed out disloyally on the sides. Apparently my rebellious body wasn’t willing to be confined by the 37-way stretch of this season’s Lycra. How did my left boob get under my right arm? And where did the other one go? How many people does that rear end belong to? It was like one of those clown cars, only buttocks kept piling out of it.

Within moments the store’s funhouse mirrors exposed every Hershey Bar and popcorn tub I had eaten in the past year — even the ones I had consumed standing up to avoid the calories.

All of the sudden the lights in the dressing room got brighter, bringing into full focus my stretch marks, my leg veins, and lack of a tan. I needed to shave my legs, wax, get a tummy tuck, pedicure, liposuction, therapy, and a spark plug change. This was rapidly becoming a very expensive swimsuit.

Meanwhile, my sweet little boy was squeezed in there with me, offering helpful little comments like, “Is it supposed to look like that?” And, “It’s okay, dad can always take me to the pool.”

Needless to say, we left without the suit.

My son told my husband about the shopping trip, and asked him why he didn’t help mommy pick out her bathing suits. He mumbled something about, “Finely honed survival skills,” and then reminded him that, “Mommy only goes in the water on vacation.”

My son nodded in agreement, but then looked a little perplexed. “Then why don’t we ever go on vacation?”

If you really want help Leslie with her swimsuitophobia, she’s available for free travel during the entire month of August. Email your itinerary to email.

Originally published in the Santa Barbara Daily Sound on June 2, 2006.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.