Summer is coming.
I know Game of Thrones is over and I’m years late to that party, but the sense of foreboding for the upcoming swimsuit season and how NOT ready I am for it feels about the same.
My lady parts and I have been locked up together with this pandemic for over a year now and let’s be clear about one thing: we have not used this time wisely.
I could have been taking care of myself. I could have been paying attention to my “self care” and my “grooming,” but in all honesty, that crap seemed a little less important than trying to survive the mental and emotional war that was being waged within the walls of my home while my family and I did our best to outwit, outplay, and outlast the virus that has caused a global crisis.
Clearly, we’ve also been binge watching a lot of TV.
Now, as we start to venture out into the world, one thing has become abundantly obvious: the swimsuit is here and I want no part of it.
Grizzly Adams is more prepared for bikini season than I am at this point. (For the young ones, he’s a REALLY hairy dude from the “olden days.” Netflix or Google’ll sort you right out there.)
I am not ready to wax, shave, or pluck. I reached for a razor in the shower yesterday and I swear I heard screaming from the southern hemisphere. Razor burn is real and the lady bits have neither forgiven, nor forgotten.
Quarantine gave us all the great reasons why I’ve stayed away from the salon, from the evil lady with the tools and the penchant for pain.
(She’s actually quite kind, but that doesn’t fit my narrative here.) Who thought of this anyway? Who came up with the idea to smear hot wax on our privates, which does feel sort of nice and soothing btw, then rip it off with excruciating precision and pain so you can be smooth as a baby? (They make you sign a really long waiver for that part!)
Let’s be honest. We all know it was some guy named Jeb who got drunk watching Karate Kid and said, “Hey Babe! Ya know how you said razor burn bothers ya? Here. Hold my beer. Wax on… wax off.” And an industry was born.
I feel like Judy Blume would really have something to say about all of this.
Back to the real issue, though, which is the judge-y display of summer wear directly inside the doors of Target.
You know, you finish stamping the snow off your boots, shake off your parka, adjust your mask and BAM! the Bahamas are calling to you from the alcove to your right. Those tankinis know I sat at home eating Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles by the party size bag for the last 13 months with never a thought about the deforestation that was on the horizon.
I know they know. And they know I know they know.
It seems glorious, all that warmth and sunshine reaching out for you, except for one thing: I looked and I looked and there were no Swim-Parkas with matching Swim Sweatpants anywhere.
So what is a girl to do when an entire clothing industry has failed us? Let us down. Expected us to do the impossible?
This girl is marching right over to the board shorts in the men’s section, that’s what.
I may have to come out of quarantine with my freshly vaccinated self, but I’m giving my nether region a little extra time out. Summer may be coming, but I’m saving the bikini line for next year. But, you do you, boo. Whatever makes you feel good – go and get it.
We all deserve some fresh air and sun. And if your lady bits are ready? More power to you.