Acceptance

After doing some invigorating shoe (sandal) shopping on Saturday, I needed to use the 'ladies' so went upstairs to the lounge at Macy's. On the way out, I saw the sign pointing to the swim suit section. "Oh why not," I asked myself. It'd be nice to have a new cute swim suit for my cruise.

I headed over and perused the racks carefully. Decided if I was going to make the effort of disrobing for one suit, I may as well make it worth while and try on several. Besides, my feet were killing me from my morning session and relaxing barefoot in the dressing room for a while sounded kind of appealing. Question: since when is trying on swim suits a 'relaxing' activity?

Inside the far too brightly lit dressing room I stripped down to my skivvies and applied the first ... well...bits of fabric. That's all a swim suit is: Two triangles strapped onto the breasts with a string and a pair of (usually ill-fitting) underwear. Looking at my body in the harsh lighting I was once again horrified, distraught and more than annoyed with what I saw in the three-way mirror; what I never seem to see in my dimly lit bedroom (I really ought to change my light bulbs, but I seem to prefer to live in denial.) -- cellulite I've always prided myself on not having much of, the tummy that won't flatten, the white sagging breasts that won't perk up no matter how tightly I tie the string around my neck. Instead of lifted breasts, I just get a raw red mark on the back of my neck as the boobs continue to head south with increased persistence.

I've been working out a lot more the past month, watching my diet for the most part, hadn't had a drop of alcohol in over a week (that's a mile stone for me), drinking herbal teas and water and this is the body I'm rewarded with?

I got dressed, put all seven suits back on their hangers and returned them to the racks. Why spend $100 on something that doesn't make me look or feel any better than the crap I already have in my drawers? I called a friend when I got home and relayed my swim suit saga to which she replied, "it's called acceptance."

She's right. Number Eight took me for a really nice meal at the Paragon that night where we shared a cheese plate, and salad, I indulged in a glass of wine, and we each ordered an entre. Sunday, I went to Pilate's and Eight and I walked to the beach through Discovery Park, so I attempted to combat some of the food damage. I can enjoy a nice meal and wine once in a while, eat healthfully overall, get daily exercise, and just wear a super cute cover up over my swim suit, and a pair of sexy sandals! That's acceptance.