She heard urgent feet running toward her, and pushing herself up, she made her way across the field into the nearby woods. Why did she try to see them again? She should’ve known they’d blow her up. Especially after last time.*
I’ve had several people ask about my Sitting Shirt and how it’s faring this summer. Honestly, it’s a little toasty in these parts for the Sitting Shirt right now (see yesterday’s Hot As Balls). I fondle its fuzzy arms in the drawer every now and then, but the thought of putting it on makes me break out into a flop sweat. But never fear, because I have discovered The Sitting Suit: Also a Thing.
It all started back at the beginning of June on our annual beach trip. I am a vampire and it’s amazing I don’t just turn into a big pile o’ dust when the sun hits my freakishly pale skin. No amount of SPF One Million seems to help. So after a week of burn lines in the boobular area – wait, lemme explain that. There’s nary a topless beach in South Carolina, but you know that thing when the sunscreen rubs off around the edges of your swimsuit and you get, like, sixth degree burns that perfectly trace the outline of your bathing suit top and feel completely HAWT? The boobular area.
Anyhoo, after a week of boobular burn lines, I swore to put an end to this madness and buy a onesie. After careful consideration, I found a long sleeved suit that’s SPF 50, long-sleeved, with built-in bra and a COLLAR. Because preppy people like to go to the beach, too, you guys.
I look like a dolphin trainer. It’s my dolphin trainer suit, but since I do not nor have I ever trained a dolphin, it’s like the running shirt that is my sitting shirt. It’s my Sitting Suit, the summer companion to the Sitting Shirt.
I bought it, and I was going to put the picture up top but thought y’all might need all this description to prepare yourselves mentally and also to serve as a trigger warning.
I wore it to the pool for the first time yesterday and noticed a few things. First, it rides up. I’m pretty short, but this thing still feels short, which is weird, because the suit is made in Australia and I had it in my mind that Australians were really, really tall. At least the Hemsworths are. Very tall…*stares out window*…Thor-what?
I was going to go with the full-length onesie, but decided to get it legless, so that my white thighs can explode out the bottom into a kaleidoscope of jiggling marbles. Do not look directly at the thighs or you’ll go blind. Or maybe turn to stone, like Medusa’s head. I’m not too sure on the fine print there, so gawker beware.
I was super excited about the built-in bra cups; however, after donning the suit, I discovered that these cups were made for young things who haven’t nursed or experienced gravity for 30+ years. The cups and my body could not find a common meeting ground within the suit, and I finally gave up.
I texted a couple friends for courage when I strode onto the pool deck, and they were concerned that I was out in public. I assured them that “shame has done left the building” and they applauded my bravery. While being far, far away from me.
After swimming for awhile and getting out, I observed that the lycra was kinda clingy and started to itch as it dried in the sun. But I had my disturbing plethora of misplaced confidence to keep my head up.
I got home and peeled it off, only to discover that somehow my shoulders STILL got pink through the suit. Then I read the fine print and saw that when the fabric stretches, the SPF is compromised. I will endeavor to crack on.
Me: This suit really turns you on.
Alex: This suit does not turn me on. At all. Even a little.
Me: It’s okay. I still have Flipper and Willy.
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*Alex wants to know what happens to the girl from my last blog. So apparently I write fiction now. After a lifetime of reading James Patterson and Patricia Cornwell serial killers, I shall endeavor to kill people creatively, and by the end of July.
