Bikini Bottom II

So this spring found me frantically searching for a replacement bikini.
I'm ashamed to say how long this process took, and how much I found I was willing to pay to get a bikini bottom with adequate coverage.

I began searching Target in late winter. These were not special trips, just perusals made while I was shopping for other Target-exclusive items (deodorant, contact solution, socks, etc).

Then, the temperature began to rise. Brave daffodils bloomed, soon followed by pansies and other flowers of a softer constitution. Grass turned bright, then deeper green. My neighbors started making the annual noises about why the managers waited until Memorial Day to open the pool.

Panic set in. I searched Dillard's, Foley's, Penney's, Sears, Goodwill and the fashion-unconscious Wal-Mart.

I'm a size 4, with a normal – maybe even smaller than normal - woman's ass. This shouldn't have been a problem. But I'm slightly pear-shaped, and I guess more conservative about my body than I care to admit. A small top is perfect, a large bottom doesn't seem like enough. Just how is it that one pieces cover the posterior, while two pieces don't?

A friend suggested this was the purpose of a bikini; if you are confident enough to expose that much of your body, you shouldn't think twice about being a little cheeky.

It didn't wash with me.

Sunday, on what turned into a two-hour hunt, another female suit shopper - blonde, small and perfectly built - sympathized. She glanced at the pile of swimsuit parts I carried into the dressing room, and turned to her husband.

“See?” she said. “She knows how horrible this is.”

He snorted. “You women are crazy.

“For one,” he said to his wife, “you're perfect. For two, I only wish my butt hung out of my trunks. Then I could scratch it real easy.”

Amusing moment aside, that day's quest was a bust.

Weary to the bone, I went back to Target for a bikini I'd tried on months before. Yes, my rear spilled out from under the large-sized bottoms, but it was reasonably priced and a good color (raisin) with cutesy little shell buttons jazzing up the top. I reasoned that I could lounge mostly on my back, and keep my cover-up wrap skirt close at hand for restroom trips, beer retrievals and other bottom-exposing pool errands.

The mid-town Target had plenty of raisin tops in every size - and no large bottoms.
Feeling defeated, I went home and logged onto Target.com. To my amazement, I found the suit - on clearance - with a large bottom. But the order failed to take. Mildly concerned, I called customer service.

“The large pant shows on your order,” said the cheery man at the other end. “But there is some sort of problem. Let me fix this for you; we'll just delete it and reorder.”

There followed a very long silence.

Finally, he spoke, but his formerly overjoyed-to-help-you tone was now clearly apologetic.

“Ma'am, is there any other suit you like?”

“No,” I said, feeling rising alarm.

“Well, there's a problem,” he said. “In the time I removed the pant and re-ordered it, someone else bought it.”

I reassured him this was OK, not because it was, but because he sounded so genuinely kind and concerned.

“I don't know if this helps, but I'll send you the top for free,” he offered. “How would that be?”

The word “free” delighted me, although I realized I could no more wear the raisin top with an unmatched bottom than I could the black-with-white-piping bikini widow already languishing in my dresser.

Monday morning, now thoroughly disgusted that the bikini clearly had become a obsession, I made a last-ditch effort. I drove far east across the city to the Super Target. I'd be decidedly late for work, and somehow, I suspected my male editor would not understand what a genuine crisis this was, but there was no thinking twice about making the journey.

There, in a part of the city that must be full of petite asses, I found it. Not just one large bottom, but several.

I grabbed one and tried it on, and miracle of miracles, it was not just large but larger than the original. Little bits of cheek still escaped it, but these I could tolerate.

I felt I'd won the lottery. For just $13 (two sunny afternoons of shopping, miles of driving and an unknown amount of time fretting) I had a new bikini!

Now, the trauma behind and pool season ahead, I can't wait to wear the silly thing. I plan this eve to dispose of my lonely top and fervently hope creepy thoughts of Eric go with it.

The pool opens Saturday, and I will be there with beer in hand. Bottoms up!