The 5 Stages Of Putting On A Swimsuit


Ladies, it’s April. Which means it’s almost May. Which means it’s almost summer. Every female, whatever her shape and stature, is mentally (and maybe even physically, if she’s more motivated and on top of her shit than you are) preparing for the inevitable, terrifying, permanently damaging situation that is:


There they are, crumpled up and stuffed barbarously in your bottom drawer. They taunt you, tease you. They know you’re working up the courage to try them on, and they can’t wait to see your reaction in real time. They’ve got a front row seat to your mirror. Once the mood strikes and the moment is just right–you accidentally skipped dinner the night before and worked up a small base tan last weekend from hanging out on your back deck–you dive in.

Stage 1: Denial And Isolation

That’s not me. No. What? I don’t look like that. No, no, no. I don’t remember it being THIS bad. Hang on, maybe if I go grab my glasses…nope. That just made the reality of this situation a lot clearer. This mirror has always been a “fat” mirror, though. I have proof of that because my friends say so. Here, I’ll try doing a self-timer photo because that’s legit. Oh wow, no–that’s awful, too. My phone’s camera must be totally fucked up. Everything is wrong except for me, and I’m not leaving my house until it’s all fixed.

Stage 2: Anger

FUCK THIS. Sorry that I’ll never be naturally thigh gap thin. Sorry that clearly starving myself on salads for the last, what, TWO DAYS has done nothing. Summer is dumb. Swimsuits are dumb. This swimsuit in particular sucks ass. Hanging out at the pool is overrated anyway: oh wow! So fun sitting out here in 100 degree heat, drinking cold beer and other fun poolside bevvies, turning different shades of sexy bronze! Whatever. I’m getting cheese fries.

Stage 3: Bargaining

If I had just done six days at the gym instead of four (and, some weeks, zero)…

If I wasn’t a product of my environment and inundated with leftover donuts, cake, cupcakes, cookies, chips, and dips every single day within my workplace…

If I hadn’t said “fuck it” so often and ordered a small Domino’s pizza and finished it all in one sitting…with ranch…

If I didn’t enjoy heavy, craft beer so much…

If I didn’t get high off the adult freedom of being able to pour a glass of wine at the end of a moderately stressful workday…

If my dad didn’t pass down the amazing ability to never not be hungry and carry my weight in my stomach…

If I had just said to no every carb, sugar, and cocktail and gone into a severe depression caused by lack of happiness or anything delicious to ever look forward to…

If I had just not unfollowed the annoyingly chipper Instagram fitness freaks (see: Blogilates)…

If I was a method actress who had to play a Holocaust victim or fashion model with a coke problem (I can say the former. I’m tribe)…

If I had been more a bitch and ordered dressing on the side…

If I just lived in Alaska, wear swimsuits are obsolete…

…I could keep going.

Step 4: Depression

This is horrible. When did I become a real woman with a real woman’s body? When did I make the transition from doing what I wanted to doing what I wanted and immediately seeing it take effect via my body? I guess I won’t partake in anything fun this summer. I don’t foresee being okay with swimsuits, the general public, and me in the near future. Sure, I could work out like a crazed gym fiend for the next few months, but for what? A little bit more tone that will fade by September? I’m just going to order a pizza and sob blubbery, fat tears. And I’m going to do it all while wearing this swimsuit, because I like to make things worse for myself. It’s fun.

Step 5: Acceptance

You know what? Fuck it. Who cares? Why do I think that anyone is actually going to check me out that much? No one’s perfect. I mean, at least I have my face–it’s pretty legit. The only way I’d ever feel completely confident in skin-tight nylon that bares both my midsection and all other sections is if I ate cottage cheese and air for ever meal. We all know that’s not going to happen, so there’s no sense in being such an asshole to myself. This is me. This is my body. This is my adorably cute suit that distracts your eyes up to my pretty significant rack. Now, pass me a beer and let’s get drunk to the point that our fat rolls rest on top of each other. Later, we can dance around in the pool. Because that’s how summer should be.

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Emma G

Emma is a female with a vagina and, subsequently, often writes things other vaginas (and sometimes weiners) find super relatable. She is a 20something who loves eating, buying clothes she doesn't need, and wearing lipstick. You can find 4+ years of her rantings on her blog:

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