Oh lovely, grass-green Norma Kamali swimsuit. You are a beauty to behold. And at less than a third your usual price, I coveted you and had to have you. So here you sit in my room, lovely and ruched, waiting to be donned by someone looking more like Betty Grable than myself. And therein lies the problem.
I’m very self-conscious in swimsuits. Since having Little Man, my body is not something usually seen in Lycra. But they are a necessity sometimes. I tell myself I wear rash guards to protect my skin from the sun. But we all know what my dirty secret is. My belly rolls rival the Sierras. I know it. I wouldn’t trade my married mama belly rolls if it meant not having my Little Man. But still – vanity is a bitch.
I’ll don Norma when I vacation soon. But will she see the light of blogdom, outside of this sad body-less post? Probably not. So I present to you Norma – the undercover suit, less she be unappreciated. Perhaps one day I’ll have the gumption to have her shown in her full glory, even if the stuffing is a little rumpled.