Well, it’s that time of the year again when even fat ladies need to buy their swimsuits. I remember the sainted words of an old friend, who told me four years ago when I bought my last one – “That thing’s gonna get eaten up by chorine in about nine weeks.” Well, she was right (give or take three years).
So it was with a sad face that I stared at the worn patches in my zebra suit, which was designed for chubby girls, the stripes effectively slanted in keeping with the two-toned effect of this sweet black-and-white bathing number.
I had no option but to resign myself to another search, an inevitable half-day spent in that bamboo change room staring in the mirror at my thick, wattle-like thighs, my cellulite smiling back, the svelte sales girl chirping on the other side of the door, “Do you need a larger size?”
While we were walking toward the swimsuit store – aptly named Seychelles Swimwear – I glanced across the street and stared at three people who were on their way into Corpus Christi Catholic Church, an architectural stunner.
Half a glimpse was all I needed to determine that I was looking at the mother and father of the bride + guest. The parents, as I would expect in this case, seemed nervous...he moving a few paces ahead of his wife, tugging on his coat sleeves like an anxious boy, as they neared the open church doors.
I am not sure how to describe the surge of emotion I felt – panic, envy, worry, anxiousness, cynicism, and delight melding into an outburst of, “She must be the mother, because otherwise she shouldn’t be wearing white, although she’s in great shape for her age, and look how much more nervous they seem than that woman lingering behind them – oh, I love her dress...that orange is such a pretty colour – and oh my God, a Catholic wedding, don’t they go on forever? Good thing it isn’t a hot day.”
So in they went and on we walked up and into the swimsuit store where, in no more than a miraculous forty-five minutes, I stood there wrestling with a final double winning choice: another zebra-style black-and-white and a lovely suit patterned with black and purple-blue swirls. “Sarah would like this one better,” I said, purple having been her favourite colour, “although she would like the other one, too.”
Let’s face it. At my age and girth, what constitutes a perfect bathing outfit is one that doesn’t elicit finger pointing and jeers as I stroll along the pool’s edge. I was never a rollicking beauty to begin with and, mostly, all I want to do now is not scare (and perhaps inadvertently drown) innocent children. Anyway, I’ll leave it to your colourful imagination to decide which bathing suit I chose, but I will tell you this:
As we emerged from the store, I looked across the street and, this time, I noticed people coming out of the church. I could tell by the absent suit jackets and the lively bounce in their steps that the service was already over. An elegant white car waited out front for the happy couple, who must have been lingering inside thanking their guests, and a small part of me wondered, “How long will this last?”
Just as soon as I had this thought, a memory leapt into my head: grade seven at Riverside Public School, Mr. Carey’s class rapt in Frank Stockton’s short story, “The Lady, or the Tiger?”
I stood still, momentarily puzzled, my purchase clutched in my hand, staring over at the churchyard. Fifty/fifty odds, I said to myself. Hit or miss. Hit or Miss. Lady – or the tiger.
And then, looking back at my purchase and Iaughing out loud, “Oh,” I said. “It’s really all the same thing.” And back toward the open doors, still no couple emerging. “Sink or swim?” I said. “Sink or swim.”
She sells Seychelles down by the seashore...
