Squats, Bends, and Pretzels: A Field Guide to Swimsuit Shopping
Plus, the artistic marvel of the new Spider-Man, the Stanley Tucci martini, and finding comfort in Paul Simon
This is a summer throwback that was originally published in 2016.
Swimsuit season is upon us. It is like Christmas for wellness-based pyramid schemes and women’s publications who ponder year after year: “What Lycra monstrosity should you deign to wear on your flawed, Rubenesque body?” I have been hyper-cognizant of swimsuit season ever since I was an adolescent coming of age in South Florida, where every day is summer and you are always minutes away from an awkward pool party thrown by some classmate named Tommy who wears too much Ck One and thinks your thighs are offensive. In those days, I wore decorative one-piece suits hand-selected by my mother. Among my greatest hits:
A nautical-themed navy blue suit with Looney Tunes characters climbing an anchor up to my burgeoning bosom. Tweety smiled excitedly as if to say, “Look, she’ll be a woman soon!”
A red and white striped Speedo suit designed precisely to emphasize how un-athletic my build was. While swimmers have broad muscular shoulders and narrow torsos to cut through the water, my curvy body bobbed like a buoy in a rip tide as I doggy paddled across the shallow end.
A neon green suit. Neon. It was neon. Look at this photo of starlet Esther Williams and then imagine the opposite of that, which is me in a neon green suit at any age.
Yes, I’ve long since shed any illusions around swimsuit season and the body politics of summer. Over the last 20 years of agonizing swimwear selection, I’ve sported one pieces, two pieces, halter tops, board shorts, and everything in between – including maternity swimwear. And it doesn’t really matter how empowered you are, going through the trial and error process of buying the perfect swimsuit is maddening and can severely erode your sense of self faster than you can say “Why am I shopping for swimsuits at Burlington Coat Factory?”
And so, with that, I have sketched out a comprehensive field guide to selecting a new swimsuit this season.
STEP ONE: Get forced into shopping for a swimsuit by some impending event. You will put this off until about 48-72 hours before said event, adding extra stress to the experience. Oh, you’re going to wedding? A wedding in Florida where you will be renting an Airbnb on the beach? An Airbnb that is being shared with some old high school friends who think you’re 20 pounds skinnier based on some savvy Instagram filtering? Great. Get excited.
STEP TWO: Maybe you have two kids and you have to take them with you on this excursion because you didn’t properly plan. Perfect! This is an opportunity to teach your 7-year-old daughter about body acceptance – which is to say, accepting that she and her brother destroyed your stomach. LOOK AT THIS WEIRD SKIN POUCH, you’ll say to them under the unforgiving lights of the fitting room. YOU GUYS DID THIS TO ME. Feeling guilty for misplacing this rage, you proceed to buy them soft pretzels. Okay, you bought one for yourself too. At this point, what difference does it make? All hope for a Sofia Vergara sexy summer is gone. Briefly consider a swim skirt. Realize you’ve been sitting in the food court, staring angrily into space for 15 minutes now.
STEP THREE: Enter store that only sells swimsuits. The people who work at this store are swimsuit experts and are ready to match you with the right pieces. You know how fun it is to go to a department store where little old ladies fit you for a bra and tell you how “sturdy” you are? This will be super fun, just like that. But, instead of using a tape measure, they will use a system of fruit shapes to determine your best fit. Are you a pear like your Aunt Kathy? An apple like Danny DeVito? A shapeless banana like that shell-of-a-person Sarah who laughed at your Looney Tunes suit at Tommy’s pool party? She’ll be at the wedding too. Your jaw sets with determination. It is decided that you are an hourglass (the only descriptor that is not a fruit, this is a terribly flawed system) — and not in the Rita Hayworth way. Hourglass in the way that your bosom and hips are just incredibly large and your waist just hasn’t had the opportunity to catch up (but well on its way). The clerk hands you some suits with way more strategic ruching than Rita ever needed. Your stretched out gut tells you that The One is in this pile. Omg, it’s all happening.
STEP FOUR: First one goes on. It has a bunch of shimmery, textured details. You appreciate the diva factor, but your “hourglass” torso looks like a Koosh Ball dipped in glitter. Next one goes on. It is a strapless suit that comes with convertible straps. You begin the initial squat and bend test. First observation: strapless suits are like an open cup handed to a toddler. One wrong move and it all spills out and the day is ruined. Second observation: squatting and bending in front of a mirror while wearing an ill-fitting suit is the ultimate expression of self-loathing. Also, squatting and bending is only the beginning of the practical swimsuit wearing experience. What if you are going to a water park and your kid wants you to go on the lazy river? It’s all fun and games until you’ve placed her on the inner tube and then you have to get up on the tube yourself and the damn thing keeps slipping out from under your butt, you snort in a bunch of chlorinated water, and bark and flail like an injured sea lion trying to get up on a rock while your child floats away in horror. Very hard to test that in a fitting room.
Okay, final one goes on. It is a smoking hot black number, perfectly hugging your curves. Now, twenty years later, you finally look like Esther Williams. You look at the price tag – $150. You bristle because you know you will pay. You will take out a second mortgage to pay for the world’s most expensive swimsuit if it means being done with this process, if it means looking fine for the full 15 minutes you’ll spend at the beach during this wedding trip, if it means going another 12 – 18 months without having to squat in front of a mirror again.
“Wow, Mommy, you look beautiful,” your angel child will say to you. She is sweet, but she also wants an ice cream cone from the place next door. As you pay for your suit, you think about how she can eat soft pretzels and ice cream without a second thought about how it might impact her body or her clothes. In fact, she already has her swimsuit selected.
A neon one-piece.
Did you know our Epicurean Zaddy Stanley Tucci used to be a bartender? He’s not just another pretty face cosplaying sophistication on Instagram - this is a seasoned pro who knows his stuff. (Please read his memoir, “Taste.” It’s excellent.) As such, this week’s libation recommendation is the Tooch’s Extra-Dry Martini, which wields dry vermouth to great effect.
½ oz. dry vermouth
2–3 oz. high-quality gin or vodka
Lemon twist or olives (for serving)
Fill a glass beaker or cocktail shaker with ice and pour in ½ oz. dry vermouth. Stir 15 seconds, then let sit 30 seconds. Stir again, then strain out and discard vermouth. Pour 2–3 oz. high-quality gin or vodka into beaker and stir 30 seconds. Let sit 30 seconds, then stir again 30 seconds. Let sit another 30 seconds, then stir again quickly. Strain cocktail into a chilled glass. Garnish with a lemon twist or olives. Cheers!
I’m not much of a comic book / superhero fan but there are a handful that I’ll watch time and time again: 1) The Dark Knight 2) Iron Man 3) the first Shazam 4) Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse. I’m sure to the comic purists, my faves are just SO basic. Cue comic guy asking me to delineate between Marvel and DC. Guess what? I absolutely can’t!
Yeah, I may not be an authority on superhero flicks, but I must insist that the new “Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse” (subtle change in the preposition from Into to Across for pt. II) is a cinematic feast. From a storytelling perspective, it explores philosophically rich questions about the nature of “good,” who decides what’s good, and what happens when the systems assigned to uphold goodness achieve the opposite (even with the best of intentions).
But what’s most compelling about the Spider-Verse franchise is the sumptuous animation. A recent write-up in the New York Times outlined some unexpected sources of inspirations, which were super fun to dig into before going to the theater. Like Leo in my favorite meme, I spent the movie spotting the artistic references and feeling pretty clever about it the entire time.
From Da Vinci to Cameron Crowe, to Point Break and No Country for Old Men, this film’s aesthetic runs the gamut. It’s at times chaotic and a little hard to absorb both visually and from a narrative perspective, but if you can manage to let go of the need to always know what the hell is going on and just enjoy the visual rollercoaster, it’s time and money well-spent.
On a more somber note, this week hasn’t been my best from an anxiety perspective. My sleep has been poor, my stress has been high, and I’m back on my late-night spiral B.S. The silver lining to these awful stints is that the universe is quite good at aligning me to soul-soothing music, typically at precisely the moment I need it the most.
Case in point, yesterday I was on the precipice of a full-blown panic attack and decided to step away from my desk and take a quick drive to clear my head. Now, you may be thinking, “Rachel! Don’t operate heavy machinery in this population-dense suburban sprawl while in the throes of a mental breakdown!” That’s fair. Fortunately no pedestrians were hurt during my joy ride, and I’ve lived to tell the tale of a special moment when Paul Simon’s “Under African Skies” randomly popped up on my car stereo and immediately took my anxiety from level 11 down to a very manageable 5.
It took me back to a moment from my adolescence when my family and I were sitting in our hurricane shuttered house, waiting for the storm to hit, and the soundtrack was the “Graceland” album. The whole record is a gem and one of my deserted island picks, but there’s something particularly ethereal about this particular track, largely due to Linda Ronstadt’s angelic harmonies. I’m extremely storm-phobic but I distinctly remember sitting alone in the dining room as the wind whistled and the track played, and suddenly feeling markedly less afraid.
Musicians have among the most noble of all occupations. Few other artistic outputs have the soul-enveloping effect of music. I’m sure when Paul and Linda were recording that song, they didn’t consider how it would help some rando Rachel girl repeatedly ride out the storm - both literally and figuratively. But it has, and that’s pretty magical.
LISTEN: “Under African Skies” | Paul Simon ft. Linda Ronstadt