Sunday, March 7, 2010

Call Me Ishmael

I’ve never been one for public bathing. I know that unless I am willing to rock a 1920’s Flapper bathing costume, me and my ass will be out there. I usually hide in my clothes and from an early age hated the idea of a swimsuit. As a child I wore those aproned ones—the 1970 preserve of pregnant ladies and obese ’tweens. Then in spite of its ridiculous infantilizing name I bought a tankini. It doesn’t help the glam factor that I swim like a buffoon. After a few dog paddles I am reduced to an exhausted snotty mess.

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