Momwriters Contests

{All About MomWriters} {MomWriters Write}
{Special Events} {Projects} {Resources/Links}
{Contact Momwriters}

No More Excuses Contest 1999 The Grand Prize Winner is: The Beach Blanket Bikini Blues by Joanne English

As summer's siren song is heard through the land, children venture forth to garner popsicles from jingling ice cream trucks, men shed their shirts and bare their hairy chests to the sun -- and women force themselves to go on that dreaded expedition: In Search of Swimsuit.

My friend Carol and I decided to venture forth together for this mission. "A bikini, maybe yellow or peach-colored," Carol said dreamily as she drove to the mall. "Skimpy enough so that I tan all over, but enough material so that I don't feel like I have to keep staring down at myself to make sure that I'm decent."

Achieving our destination, we started on the Great Bikini Chase. We followed, like lemmings, a flock of other women headed toward the seemingly innocuous swimwear displays throughout the mall. Polka-dotted bikinis swayed enticingly next to Passion Peach (according to the label) one-piece bathing suits.

"I lOOOOOOve this bright red bikini," lusted a teenager, her blond hair bobbing with enthusiasm as she grabbed it. "Yummy," swooned her friend, snagging what appeared to be the only Chartreuse Dappled with Pepto-Bismol Pink Peapods available. (Not that I had considered purchasing it to actually wear in public, but I thought it might be a collector's edition.)

Carol selected one of the Passion Peach suits, then lingered wistfully in the bikini section. "Oh, boy, I'm going to try on this black leather bikini," a young girl said happily in the next aisle.

"No, you don't," said her mother calmly. "Thirteen-year-old girls do not wear black leather."

"But MO-om," the would-be black-leather-wearer whined, "you don't understand. Like, all the other girls will be wearing stuff like that, and they'll go, like, 'Oh, Janie, did your mommy pick out that pink bathing suit with the little lace skirt?'"

I grinned, remembering similar conversations that I had held with my mother at that age. Feeling nostalgic, I watched as they compromised on an extraordinarily bright yellow, albeit non-leather, bikini.

"People will need to wear sunglasses before they can look at you in that color," her mother grumbled as they walked toward the dressing rooms.

"Yeah, well, duh, they're at the beach anyway, as if, like, anyone would go to the beach without shades, huh, Mom?" her daughter retorted.

After choosing a more subdued yellow bikini, I persuaded Carol to fling caution and her penny-pinching tendencies to the air-conditioning wind, and try on the designer bikini that she obviously wanted. We proceeded to the scrutiny of the Dressing Room Gatekeeper (well, her nametag called her a "Women's Section Shopping Advisor"), who inventoried our accumulated potential purchases.

"Yeah, okay," she said, accompanying her words with two of those odd little cards that they hand out, like a reverse toll charge, showing how many items you have taken into the dressing room. (I've always wondered what happens if you lose your card; is it like losing a library card, in which case you have to pay a dollar? Or is a superior type of gatekeeper summoned, who will pronounce your sentence of doom?)

Slipping into adjacent dressing rooms separated by bikini-material-thin walls, we began the Undress/Redress/Assess process. A moan ensued from the room next to me, just as I was attempting to fasten the bikini top.

"What's wrong?" I asked. "Is that you, Carol?"

"I've got it bad," she hissed solemnly through the wall.

"What?" I asked, alarmed, envisioning perhaps smallpox, or maybe an unknown skin rash.

"The bikini boobie-butt-blues," she said solemnly.

A giggle ensued from the cubicle across the aisle. "Me, too," called an unknown, young voice. "And I swear that there's something weird about the material this year. I mean, it, like, shows every single fat cell, and it makes those fat cells look like miniature balloons all over your body."

Finishing fastening the bikini, I looked in the mirror. She was right.

"I swear to you, I bet this is why Pamela Anderson Lee had her breast implants removed," said an older voice in the cubicle next to mine. "Because only a skeleton could look even reasonably thin in this stuff."

I heard another voice, which I recognized as the no-leather-on-you mother. "Or a thirteen-year-old," she amended with a sigh. "I think I'll spend summer wearing a caftan."

I peeked out of my curtain, and saw other heads peeping back at me. They ranged from the just-into-her-teens girl with her mother to an over-forty, pleasantly plump woman, who boldly threw back her curtain and did a model's twirl.

"Notice the way in which this swimsuit makes the derriere magically protrude," the latter said, mimicking a fashion show announcer's silky voice. "And note, too, the amazing tendency that this material has to cause cellulite to look like the Alps."

We all laughed. Then Carol looked at me. I looked at Carol. "We could go to the mountains for a vacation this summer," she suggested reasonably.

I thought for a minute. "And get frozen yogurt instead of trying on anymore of this stuff?" I asked hopefully.

She nodded.

It wasn't a difficult decision. After all, too much sun causes skin cancer and, as the dressing room discussion scientifically proved, wearing anything made of cellulite-into-Alps results in an extremely bad case of the bikini boobie-butt-blues.

Back to Top