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Posted by on Feb 29, 2016 in Retirement Humour, Retirement Living, Uncategorized |




The following is intended for mature audiences. If disturbing images such as Donald Trump in a wind tunnel make you squeamish consult a physician, a trained medical professional or Doogie Howser.

Today I am going to prove that the image of a middle-age man buying a bathing suit is not pretty– it’s worse than a road trip with your kids projectile vomiting in the backseat.

Imagine in your mind: a middle-age Canadian man trying on bathing suits in a department store. It’s February.

The picture as the change room door opens is downright scary…

The winter parka and Duck Dynasty toque are in a heap on the change room floor. Standing in the doorway is a live specimen of a middle-age man in a bathing suit. His belly droops over the waistband. Two skinny ‘winter white legs’ stretch down to the floor.. revealing mismatched socks with holes.

It is enough for women to cancel the trip south.

Recently my wife loaded me up with so many bathing suits to try on in the men’s change room, that I looked like a pack mule trekking up the Andes Mountains.

The first bathing suit was called, ‘Trunks.’ It was pretty ordinary.

Another bathing suit was called ‘Board Shorts.’ It was longer than the ‘Trunks.’

What Jan didn’t send in was a ‘Thong’…think overweight European men at Caribbean resorts! She did mutter something about looking for a bathing suit– with skin tone suspenders!

In the change room I slipped off my shoes. OUCH!! Those damn pins from dress shirts on the floor jab my bare feet! I’m jerking like Joe Cocker singing ‘Get By With A Little Help From My Friends.’ I’m bouncing off the change room walls swearing like a soccer mom!

Why can’t wives do what they say? “Yes Gary I will wait outside the change room to see how the swimsuits fit.”

I open the door and of course– Jan’s a no-show.

For the next ten minutes– wearing a bathing suit– I parade through the store. Shoppers think I’m nuts as I sing, ‘Hi-ho, Hi-ho, throughout the store I go.’

It turns out she is up the escalator over in ‘Housewares’ on the other side of the Perfume department– which is the size of the Republic of Ireland. OMG!! She’s looking at decorator charger plates!

When Jan saw me– actually when she recovered from rolling on the floor convulsing in laughter– she reached in her purse for her paint chips.

‘Dear, your legs match Benjamin Moore #905: Lily of the Valley. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

Next she snapped a picture on her iPhone and posted in on Instagram. Then she submitted it to Houzz!

Back at the change room… I’m locked out!

Have you noticed how you can’t find staff when you need them?

This time down the escalator, past Shoes, Handbags, Dresses, Home Appliances, Furniture… over near the Genetic Blood Testing Centre I finally locate a sales clerk, a sales associate or whatever you call them these days.

First thing first: I convince her not to call Security. I just need the change room unlocked.

So what did you learn?

Women travel solo because middle-age men buy bathing suits.