So it begins..
For most of the summer holidays, I seem to have been encased in a harness, so much so that it has become almost common nature to reach for my arse and remove a wedgie – any time – any where.
However, our Summer adventures have changed us in location to Crantock, Cornwall , and with wake boarding, water zorbing, surfing, aqualand and body boarding on the menu for the week I knew my harness days were over.
To be replaced by a wetsuit.
Something every 35-year-old plus woman dreads more than an invite to a cervical smear. At least when another woman pokes around in your vagina with a spectrum you know the ultimate aim is general good health and avoidance of Cancer. When you get an invite to wear a wetsuit, the ultimate aim is shame and self loathing.
This tale is clearly not going to end well.
As we seem to have bathing in the Atlantic Ocean high on our daily list, I thought I would try to avoid the daily shame of an under 35-year-old surf goddess gazing at my ample bosom and tummy and trying to guess my size; by buying my own wetsuit.
Because that would be far less painful, just trying on the one wetsuit.
Wrong – again.
My eldest also needed a wetsuit and so together we followed the signs plastered all over Crantock for the cheap stall in Newquay.
You know what they say about buying cheap….
We headed in, the girl child was easy to sort, for her it was a case of choosing a colour. For me it was slightly trickier.
A 50 something non surf god with a slightly paunch belly eyed me up, I believe the description is – he ate me with his eyes – like I was a Big Mac and fries with extra cheese.
“Hmmmm, you could be this one, or this one, or this one…”
He seemed to like lingering in the large plus section.
“It is the chest, you see,” he said, savouring the Big Mac, “all about the chest,”
“Try this one,”
And with one last lick of the lips, he popped me in a cupboard with a sign saying changing room on it, and I was left with my daughter (who is known to have a very honest tongue) and my new potential wetsuit.
Easing myself and my neoprene date in gently, I teased my toes into the first leg and tried to poke my ankle through.
Although non surf god with the slightly paunch belly said it was all about the chest, in my case it would seem it was about the ankles.
Who the feck has fat ankles?
3 and a half minutes later, a bucket of sweat and a quick lesson in swearing for my daughter I had two feet and my incredibly large ankles into my new neoprene friend.
I started to smooth the wetsuit over my thighs.
My thighs which used to belong to Godzilla.
“Is it hot in here?” I asked my daughter who was doubled over, clutching her stomach.
She shook her head as I wiped beads of sweat from my brow.
We got to the chest.
(Because it is all about the chest).
My breasts contorted like a stress ball under the grip of a madman, sliding up to my chin in an attempt to resist arrest by the wetsuit. At one point I could have reached out and gripped my bra in my teeth.
Then suddenly I heard a popping sound – and I was in.
My whole body wrapped in giant spanx.
Hot, giant spanx.
I turned to my daughter who was almost blue with hysterics.
“Fasten me up,”
The hysteria ended with a sudden realisation of terror that she was the one who had to zip me up.
She tried to resist but one look from my bright red, bloodshot eyes told her arguing was pointless.
So she tried…
She pulled, she ripped off the tags, she yanked, and she used some of the words I had just taught her.
Then I was in…
I realised this mainly as it felt like an attacker had crept in and silently placed his hands around my throat and was squeezing until the air in the room was all but gone.
“Un…. zip….. me,” I spluttered as the my life danced before my eyes.
“Now!” I yelled as the room started to go dark.
Then suddenly it was light again.
Clearly it has only 33% to do with the chest, fat ass ankles, and a power lifters neck also play crucial roles in determining your wetsuit size.
I didn’t buy it, I’d rather swim naked than go through that again.
Be hopes it isn’t busy at the beach tomorrow….