Swimming Suit Shopping… For My Daughter, That Is

There are not many things in this life that I despise.  Dread.  Detest.  (Trying to avoid the “hate” word for my younger readers, here.)  But there are a few.  Here’s my short list:

·         Preparing my taxes every February and March

·         Dental work without anesthesia

·         Getting my lip waxed

·         Strident preachers

·         An I.V. that is inserted at the wrong angle

·         Picking up dog poop out of the yard after it’s rained for a week

·         Shopping for my bathing suit every year

(I think I may have just broken out in hives writing this list.)

But there is ONE thing that tops them ALL – swimming suit shopping with my teenage daughter.   And today was that day.

Let’s make a couple things clear.  First: I am usually a reasonable, flexible and fair mother.  I want (and have generally promoted) open dialogue with my children.  I have always been open to a fairly significant degree of influence from my kids.  Second:  My kids would generally agree with this assessment.

But EVERYTHING changes each spring when it’s time to shop for Lizzie’s swimming suit.   Strangely, the previous 364 days of the year cease to matter.  They are forgotten.  Discarded.  I become a monster.  A control freak.  Hyper-conservative.  A destroyer of all teenage social acceptability.   An oppressive dictator.  A mother who understands absolutely NOTHING about fashion, being 16 years old, life or the universe in general. 

I can accept this barrage of accusations that call into question my sterling character.  You know why?  Because years ago – for one day each spring – my mother morphed into that same unreasonable, crazy person.

Just a quick question:  Does not the word “SUIT” (as in “bathing SUIT”) imply the use of actual fabric, not just thread?? 

Just checkin’.