Your Cap is Growing a unknown author

 Today I am passing on a funny story from an unknown author.
This adorable sculpture was created by Sally Diggory and sets the stage for the story.
 Older folks can remember and relate--younger people will have to imagine the details.
When I was a child in the 1950s, the bathing suit for the mature figure was-boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They  were built to hold back and uplift, and they did a good job.

Today's  stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure  carved from a potato chip.

The  mature woman has a choice, she can either go up front to the maternity  department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away looking  like a hippopotamus that escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can  wander around every run-of-the-mill department store trying to make a  sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of fluorescent  rubber bands.

What  choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and  entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first  thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch  material. The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I  believe,
by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which  gives the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into  one, you would be protected from shark attacks. Any shark taking a swipe  at your passing midriff would immediately suffer  whiplash.

I  fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder strap  in place I gasped in horror, my boobs had  disappeared!

Eventually,  I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find  the other. At last I located it flattened beside my seventh  rib.

The  problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman  is now meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed  bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a  full view assessment.

The  bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fitted those bits  of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously  from top, bottom and sides. I looked like a lump of Playdoh wearing  undersized cling wrap.

As  I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the  prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, "Oh, there  you are," she said, admiring the bathing suit.

I  replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to show me. I  tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking  tape, and a floral two-piece that gave the appearance of an oversized  napkin in a serving ring.

I  struggled into a pair of leopard-skin bathers with ragged frills and  came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and having a  rough day.

I  tried on a black number with a midriff fringe and looked like a  jellyfish in mourning.

I  tried on a bright pink pair with such a high cut leg I thought I would  have to wax my eyebrows to wear them.

Finally,  I found a suit that fit, it was a two-piece affair with a shorts-style  bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and  bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful  outcome, I figured.

When  I got it home, I found a label that read, "Material might become  transparent in water."

So,  if you happen to be on the beach or near any other body of water this  year and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off jeans and a  T-shirt!

You'd  better be laughing or rolling on the floor by this time. Life isn't  about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain, with or  without a stylish bathing suit!

"""You  can't change the past, but you can ruin the present by worrying over the  future"""






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