What's worse, shopping for jeans or for a swimsuit?

Hmmm. That's a close call. On the one hand, trying on jeans is a nightmare because they either fit or they don't. Period. Some NASA scientist (a woman, no doubt) introduced spandex into the denim market about a decade or so ago. The move was pure genius, by the way, but it seems that now the manufacturers only mix the spandex and denim in jeans made for skinny chicks anyway, so what's the point? Sure, those women can say they now wear a "0" whereas they used to wear a "2," but I mean really. So what?

How about making some of those stretchy jeans for us big girls, the ones who really need it? I've been getting dressed using a shoehorn for years now, or at least I do when I am wearing jeans. They simply aren't going on any other way. And then, of course, you have to think about how uncomfortable the darned things are once you finally get them on! Sitting? Forget it. You can do that tomorrow. Bending? Leave it; it's not worth the health risk. Once, I bent over to pick up a pen I had dropped and nearly blacked out from lack of blood flow to my brain. I haven't done that again.

But now swimsuit shopping, that's a whole different story. I shop for swimsuits with one person and one person only. She and I have been friends for about 20 years now, and we have a system. First, we stop at a fun little watering hole under the pretense of having lunch. She and I will split a house salad (no dressing, thank you) and have 3 or 4 margaritas. Each. I know what you're thinking, but this particular restaurant is in the same mall where the dreaded swimsuits are, so we don't need a designated driver.

Then, we hit the shops. We cruise the swimsuit section of each store like sharks circling a school of fish of which they are terribly afraid. After an hour or so, we take our few finds to the dressing room to try them on. And I have to ask you, who in the hell decided that harsh fluorescent lighting was a good idea in dressing rooms? Even in the suits that weren't completely hideous on us, at best we look like cadavers getting ready to go for a dip. Every bump, lump, bulge and sag stands out in painful detail. Oh, I shudder just thinking about it.

It's about that time, ladies. Time to venture out to the stores and select a swimsuit (or two or three) that you can live with. This year, to save time, my friend and I have decided to just take a few bottles of wine with us and go straight to the stores.

Lord help us; the shorts are blooming.

My goodness. Every year I forget, and every year I am reminded all over again. Women over a certain age and a certain weight should not wear certain things. Neither should men, but I think the women bother me more. Maybe because I can relate to the women, I don't know, but the men I just find amusing. Boys and their toys, I guess. But now seriously folks, hear me out and tell me, am I wrong? Just plain mean? Too critical? I don't think so.

I was driving home from my walk this morning, and I stopped at a local convenience/pharmacy store to pick up a few things we need around the house. I always look awful when I work out. I just don't see the point in putting on makeup and fixing my hair just so I can sweat, huff and puff. So I'm being perfectly honest here, and not just about the other woman in the store with me.

I picked up my items - toothpaste, floss and a loaf of bread, and hauled them up to the front of the store. I got in line behind a woman who, so help me, was still under the impression she's 15 and thin. In truth, she looked to be about 45 and, um, not thin. Again, I'm right there with her, so not pointing fingers and laughing. Just observing.

She was wearing short shorts, the ones I describe to my girls as being cheek floss. Her legs were pasty white and dimpled, highlighted by varicose veins here and there. The top she wore was very tight and secured only with spaghetti straps.  Oh my goodness. I took a step back.

Now as I said earlier in this post, I do not get all dolled up to work out. What I do without fail, to the best of my ability, however, is dress appropriately. I do not wear short shorts, I do not wear skin-tight anything, and I do not ever, in any circumstance, go braless. If there's not a city ordinance on the books about that, there should be.

This woman stood there in front of me, popping her gum and tapping her unnaturally long fingernail on the plastic display case of Snickers Bars on the counter. Apparently she had someplace else extremely important to get to, seeing as how she was all dressed up. I just shook my head, inside my head, of course, not outwardly. I have learned a bit of temperance over the years.

When I see a woman that age, that size, dressed as she was, I cringe. It tells me that she is either a) blind or b) oblivious. There is such a thing as aging gracefully and beautifully. It does not involve denying the fact that you're getting older. Not at all.

Now men who dress inappropriately for their age? Oh yes, I just find humor in that. I probably wouldn't if the man in question were my husband, though. I am reminded of a time many Spring breaks ago, when we took all the kids to the beach. I happened to glance up from the book I was reading just in time to see a man of, oh, about 60 or 65 years old walking the beach. He was nearly perfectly round, had a slick bald head, and he was wearing a man's thong bikini with the image of the English flag on it. He was turning heads, that's for sure. He, too, was completely oblivious to the fact that he did not look like Michael Phelps in that get-up. I just had to chuckle.

Of course with men we're more likely to say, "well good for him." With women we typically say, "Tsk tsk. She should know better."

Anyway, like fat chirping robins, blooming dogwoods and pollen, I witnessed yet another harbinger of Spring this morning in line at the neighborhood Walgreen's. My, my.