Suburban outfitters

Listen carefully, because I'm about to share a stunning piece of information with you. Life as a woman is no picnic. Sometimes, it's even hard. Pregnancy? Sure. Childbirth? Oh yeah. However, I'm not talking about those. There is another, possibly even bigger horror, that all of us women have to experience on average of once a year. Once a summer. Usually around the end of May, beginning of June.

What is it? Oh yes. The annual trip to the fitting room to TRY ON A BATHING SUIT.

It's cruel, it's unnatural, and yet, it's sadly necessary. I thought we were so enlightened in this day and age, so sensitive to the needs of others and all about making life easier. Unfortunately, set foot in a dressing room and you could instantly be transported back 30 years and everything looks the same (except for your smart phone sitting on the little shelf).

The new-bathing-suit trip, for me, had become a much more infrequent trip in recent years. However, this year we decided to purchase the family membership to the local water park/pool. After a couple of visits and coming face-to-face with friends and acquaintances who live in town, sometime in the middle of summer I decided that I was going to need a brand-new bathing suit for such a visit. After not having been bathing suit shopping in a couple of years, I was humorously slightly excited to do so. How quickly we forget.

First of all, a body which has not seen the sun in the nine months that have elapsed since the end of last summer should NOT be exposed to fluorescent lights. Why do they have fluorescent lights in fitting rooms, anyway? I'm going to go ahead and assume that it's because they're a) really bright and b) cheaper than other kinds. Either that or department stores have an evil sense of humor.

So, I really think that the most compassionate thing to do would be for the store to offer a free spray tan immediately prior to the bathing suit trial. It's only fair. It doesn't have to be dark. I don't have to look like a model from the old Coppertone ads. Just a little golden glow, just so that my skin doesn't look like I died last week and so I'm not able to trace with my fingertips the exact path from the veins in my wrists all the way up to my heart. I'm not asking too much here. JUST A LITTLE SPRAY TAN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

Barring that, how about ditching the fluorescent lights? Sure, they provide very bright light so that you can see every little thing. On the downside, they provide very bright light so that you can see every little thing. See the difference? Do they really think we women want to be illuminated like that? I want that kind of light if I'm reading a book. I don't need to play dot-to-dot with my moles. Why not just give me 3D glasses and really scare me?! What stores SHOULD do is use soft, warm, off-white light. Maybe even rose-colored light. With music playing, fresh flowers, a glass of wine, and perhaps even the sound of ocean waves crashing in the background. That's right, I want it to be a complete spa experience. You want to sell more bathing suits? Do all that and I promise your sales will quadruple. But as it is, right now, instead of crashing waves, pass by any fitting room and you're more likely to hear either horrified screaming or the gentle weeping of a woman who genuinely did not realize until this moment just what happened to her body over the course of the winter.

I was prepared. I was prepared not to take a peek in that mirror until I was completely clad in a new suit and not a second before. This worked for the most part, although I was still required to actually see myself at some point in what could be a good suit choice... or what could be a bad one. The worse the suit, the faster it must come off, of course all the while averting your eyes. One of my favorite Seinfeld episodes was where he talked about the difference between "good naked" and "bad naked." Well, I think we all realize that trying to bend and contort your body into and out of a bathing suit, sadly, typically results in bad naked.

So I looked at myself in my newest contender. It wouldn't have been bad except that it felt too tight. Looked at the tag and... oops. Accidentally picked up a size too small, and that's certainly not going to help the situation. As I crossed my arms and attempted to pull the top over my head, I realized that getting out of this contraption was going to be harder than I'd thought. Do you ever reach that fork in the road during the whole fitting-room experience where you have to make a decision: pop my shoulder out of joint or stay in this top until they cut me out of it? I had reached that point. I didn't want to be cut out of it, for obvious reasons such as a) a store employee seeing me naked and b) having to purchase a cut-up bathing suit. What does one do with shredded spandex, anyway? You can't make dust rags out of it. Not very absorbent. In fact, all I can come up with is fashioning several tiny bathing suits for Barbie, which would please Colette but I really don't want to spend that much on doll clothing.

Thankfully it didn't come to that. Luckily for me, I'm pretty flexible, and I was able to pretzel my way out of the suit with a minimum of sound effects and prayers to God. After all, I didn't want to scare my fitting room-mates. I can only hope there were no hidden cameras and that I won't find myself unwittingly appearing on YouTube.

I only ended up buying one suit that day. I did find two pieces that pleased me enough to buy them, and after briefly being held hostage in the other suit, that was enough for me for one day. In retrospect, however, I probably should have soldiered through and bought at least one more just so that I could avoid another shopping trip for an extra year. But who knows, maybe they'll listen to me and provide a more calming, serene fitting-room experience for us women who already have it so hard. I could make a phone call. Maybe write a letter or leave feedback on their Web site. Or maybe I'll just let the hidden camera footage speak for itself.