Damara Hutchins

Waiting is half the battle

I enjoy shopping online. It is easy, fast, and I don’t have to navigate around people’s kids or carts. I rarely buy clothing or shoes online because it usually doesn’t work out for me. I’m simply not the average size. For some reason, I forgot this a few weeks ago when I saw an adorable swimsuit my friend, Mandy, shared on Facebook.

It was the definition of cute -- red with white polka dots and enough ruffles around the bottom to distract from my adult-sized hips -- but not so many that it looked like a kid’s suit. The top had an underwire. I was skeptical. I just knew it would never fit, but the sizing chart had measurements for the bust and hips and, sure enough, I was within the boundaries of a size offered! I couldn’t believe it. The price was outrageously low. I took a chance.

What I didn’t realize in my retail frenzy until I got the confirmation email was that the item I purchased was being shipped from somewhere in Europe…England, it appeared. I would have reconsidered ordering any clothing from Europe if I would have been paying any kind of attention whatsoever.

My image of people from the motherland includes slinky, blonde models who wear turtleneck sweaters, eat more fish than I do, ski a lot, and think all Americans look like Honey Boo Boo’s mother. I think I’ve watched one too many James Bond movies.

Now I was positive the suit was never going to fit. What’s worse, it would take 12 to 24 days to arrive! What?

I should’ve been clued in to this whole European connection by the centimeter measurement chart. I mean, come on, like the United States is ever going to cave in to international pressure beginning with online shopping orders! We don’t even call soccer football like the rest of the world.

On a side note, my coworkers and I were thinking a better name for American football would be “carryball” or “tackleball” or “WWFball.” My husband said “smashball” was a good choice. If you think about it, football is a horrible name for a sport that your foot rarely touches the ball. Like adopting the metric system, I don’t think this name change will happen, but if the NFL ever wants to brainstorm, I’m available.

During this agonizing wait for my polka dot suit, I would check the mail every day like an eager child waiting on a birthday card filled with cash. I went to a pool, a spring-fed river, the lake, and Siesta Key beach. I really could’ve used an adorable bathing suit.

Finally the day arrived and my package was waiting for me! I ran into my bedroom and locked the door so the kids wouldn’t bother me. I tore open the package like a crazed dog going for a bacon-flavored treat. Here it was!

Hmmm. It was smallish. I put it on and heard “stretching” sounds. I wouldn’t say it was ripping because nothing actually ripped. “Relax,” I told myself, “The size chart said this would fit.”

I pulled it all the way up and when I got to my top, my heart sunk. Apparently, in Europe, all women are size B-cups because that is what was sewn and molded into the top. Yes, it technically fit the measurement around, but there was no way “the girls” were going to fit in those molds. I had to laugh.

Europe, I may visit one day, but I’m packing my own swim suit.