Thursday, January 2, 2014

Whose Glutes Aren't Larger Than Their Neck? I Must Meet that Person.

The first few steps to successfully committing to a Sprint Triathlon at the age of me, is: #1. Scour the planet for the easiest race in existence, no matter how far you have to travel. #2. Pay for it, or in my case, have Big Red pay for it, because she's so excited to be a part of it. #3. Buy, for the first time in your life, a one-piece swimsuit that fits like a Chinese finger trap.

So for any of you who haven't had the pleasure of shopping for "said" swimwear, I'm going to clue you in on the humiliation of such an event. Big Red purchased hers first and whined about the tightness in the shoulders, therefore she'd have to return it for a size larger.  Okay. I get it.

So, with all that knowledge under my belt, I confidently walked out of the sporting goods store with a royal blue, sparkly, shiny suit - complete with racing stripes - in yes, a size larger than I choose for clothing.

And then a couple of days later I decided it's time to give it a go.  Now, I know, most people would perhaps have the gumption to actually try the swimwear on before purchasing. I don't disagree, except with the winter storm we just endured, I was bundled up as if Ralphie's mom from "The Christmas Story" had taken an interest in my well-being.

So, now I'm home and I approach the entry by cautiously looking at the suit from all angles, and quickly conclude there are no zippers.  It appears the only plausible way to embark on this journey is through the neck of this contraption. Therefore feet first through the neck. Okay, so far, so good.  All I can think of at this point is, my neck is way smaller than my gluteus maximus (which is why it's called maximus, not minimus), therefore how do these manufacturers expect I pull this suit up to my shoulders.  FYI, this is not a stupid question after all.

It can be done. WARNING: If you're squeamish, exit this site right now.

All it takes is a contortionist attitude much like the magicians who find it fascinating to escape a straight jacket. Simply dislocate both of your shoulders; wiggle like a bobble head on a gang bangers dashboard; carefully insert arms through their designated space; and finally, slam your shoulders one-by-one into the nearest wall for perfect relocation.

Voila, success. Except, I looked like a ball of pasty, white dough stuffed into a narrow cylinder of chicken wire. Nobody needs to see this. So, like Big Red, I marched back to the swimsuit purchasing palace and traded that model in for another, only I chose one three sizes larger (not one).  The gal at the counter was so sweet after I told her  I clearly had a much smaller vision of myself with my original purchase. She quickly replied, "aren't you the one training for the triathlon," and after my nod, she said, "you can come back in a couple of months and fit into this one." I cried all the way home.

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