wrestling pigs, deep thoughts, and the best news i've heard in a while

It's that time of year, friends! Yes, swim suit season! I don't know a single woman who gets excited about this endeavor, unless they are size 00 and have 1% body fat. I even know some ladies who have given up all water sports because they refuse to don a swim suit. Or, they stick to athletic shorts and tshirts. I am not yet willing do to either.

I suppose I'm more comfortable in a swim suit than someone of my stature should be, and I blame this on my years of competitive swimming. I acquired a sense of "meh" while in a tube of lycra that no one should ever obtain. Fear not, as I have grown older (and wider) I've become more hesitant, and more aware of what might or might not look good on me.

Enter my adventures today. I decided, heaven only knows why, today to take a gander at a new suit. My suit from last year is a totally functioning tankini from Target. The top is well supportive, but the bottoms are a tiny bit stretched out in the bum, from all of the slide riding with M. I have learned a few things about my body (that's what she said?) that make purchasing a swim suit difficult.

One, I must have a long torso. With any one piece I tried on, either the leg openings ended up at approximately my navel, or I had to hunch over to get the suit to not look one degree shy of pornographic. I also found a nice little tankini with underwire in it, thinking that would be great for a busty gal like myself. Not. so. much. Turns out this underwire was just for decorative purposes, because one wouldn't even be able to put kiwis in it, let alone the goods I've been blessed with.

So after 20 minutes of wrestling myself into and out of swim suits (something akin to wrestling pigs), I emerged from the fitting room flushed and sprinkled with sweat, only to have nothing to show for it.

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I have been hesitant to verbalize this thought, not because of what I'm going to say, but because of the potential responses. I don't want a peptalk, I don't want to be one upped, I just want to get this out there.

I'm dreading my 30th birthday (I know, I know, it's not for another year, but I'm freaking out already). In my head, my 30th birthday marks The Age of Unacceptability. It is not longer acceptable for me to be single. Or childless. Or living in the apartment that am. Or having a job that pays peanuts. Or not really "having anything to show for myself." Which yes, is absurd. I know that those things don't make a person successful, but to me, once I turn the 30 corner, that's it. I'm past my expiration date. Which is depressing.

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Here in NEO, we seem to have skipped over all of the loveliness that is late May early June, and headed right into the brutality that is Summer Weather.

I sleep with a fan on year-round. During the winter months, it's turned away from me and on low (white noise, y'all). When the weather starts to turn warmer, I turn the fan around and try to use the levels of fan-ness sparingly.

How disappointed was I, when, in the final days of May, I had to jack the sucker up to full speed. And this wasn't even enough relief. When your apartments is 87 degrees, even level three isn't enough.

I think this goes without saying, but sleep doesn't come easily in 87 degrees. I normally tolerate this better when school isn't in session, but since it's only THE START OF JUNE, I've been a zombie for the last two days.

So imagine my glee when I heard the weatherman report: Cold Front.

Amen.