We have all heard it. Stress can kill us dead. Unfortunately, none of us are immune to the pressures of life and the stress that can wreak havoc in our daily lives. Relationships get torn asunder, health issues arise, loss of friends or jobs or spouses all can be attributed to how we handle stress.
Why is it some people seem to be placidly go about their lives without a care in the world and others are so high strung you are afraid to broach any subject with them lest they break down into tears or begin castigating you at the dining room table.
We know we cannot change others behaviors, but we can however change how we react to people and the things around us. I am a big believer in knowing my limitations so that I do not compare my insides to your outside. Looks can be deceiving. I fall short of that mark many times though when I see someone who is calm in the face of calamity. I also gloat inwardly when I see someone "lose it" at the checkout line, because I do not feel so alone or weird.
So what causes stress? There is a questionnaire next to this article, with multiple answers. I am sorry if I left any out, feel free to elaborate in the comment section. Under it is a poll on how we deal with stress ( I will tell you some pointers I ve learned later next week.
Showing posts with label mature women. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mature women. Show all posts
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Bathing Suit
I got this from Linda K... I know more than a few women who can identify!
The Bathing Suit
When I was a child, the bathing suit for the mature figure was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift; they did a good job. Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potato chip.
The mature woman has a choice - she can either go up front to the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can wander around every run of the mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of florescent rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as any shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whip lash.
I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror - my boobs had disappeared! Eventually, I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find the other. At last I located it, flattened beside my seventh rib.
The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full view assessment.
The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of play dough wearing undersized cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, 'Oh, there you are,' she said, admiring the bathing suit.
I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to show me.
I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversized napkin in a serving ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and having a rough day.
I tried on a black number with a mesh midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.
I tried on a bright pink suit with such a high cut leg I thought I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.
Finally, I found a suit that fit - a two-piece affair with a shorts style bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful outcome, I figured.
When I got home, I found a label which read 'Material might become transparent in water.'
So, if you happen to be on the beach, or near any other body of water this year, and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt!
The Bathing Suit
When I was a child, the bathing suit for the mature figure was boned, trussed and reinforced, not so much sewn as engineered. They were built to hold back and uplift; they did a good job. Today's stretch fabrics are designed for the prepubescent girl with a figure carved from a potato chip.
The mature woman has a choice - she can either go up front to the maternity department and try on a floral suit with a skirt, coming away looking like a hippopotamus who escaped from Disney's Fantasia, or she can wander around every run of the mill department store trying to make a sensible choice from what amounts to a designer range of florescent rubber bands.
What choice did I have? I wandered around, made my sensible choice and entered the chamber of horrors known as the fitting room. The first thing I noticed was the extraordinary tensile strength of the stretch material. The Lycra used in bathing costumes was developed, I believe, by NASA to launch small rockets from a slingshot, which give the added bonus that if you manage to actually lever yourself into one, you are protected from shark attacks as any shark taking a swipe at your passing midriff would immediately suffer whip lash.
I fought my way into the bathing suit, but as I twanged the shoulder strap in place, I gasped in horror - my boobs had disappeared! Eventually, I found one boob cowering under my left armpit. It took a while to find the other. At last I located it, flattened beside my seventh rib.
The problem is that modern bathing suits have no bra cups. The mature woman is meant to wear her boobs spread across her chest like a speed bump. I realigned my speed bump and lurched toward the mirror to take a full view assessment.
The bathing suit fit all right, but unfortunately it only fit those bits of me willing to stay inside it. The rest of me oozed out rebelliously from top, bottom, and sides. I looked like a lump of play dough wearing undersized cling wrap.
As I tried to work out where all those extra bits had come from, the prepubescent sales girl popped her head through the curtain, 'Oh, there you are,' she said, admiring the bathing suit.
I replied that I wasn't so sure and asked what else she had to show me.
I tried on a cream crinkled one that made me look like a lump of masking tape, and a floral two piece which gave the appearance of an oversized napkin in a serving ring.
I struggled into a pair of leopard skin bathers with ragged frills and came out looking like Tarzan's Jane, pregnant with triplets and having a rough day.
I tried on a black number with a mesh midriff and looked like a jellyfish in mourning.
I tried on a bright pink suit with such a high cut leg I thought I would have to wax my eyebrows to wear it.
Finally, I found a suit that fit - a two-piece affair with a shorts style bottom and a loose blouse-type top. It was cheap, comfortable, and bulge-friendly, so I bought it. My ridiculous search had a successful outcome, I figured.
When I got home, I found a label which read 'Material might become transparent in water.'
So, if you happen to be on the beach, or near any other body of water this year, and I'm there too, I'll be the one in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt!
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