I rode the wave of self-confidence and Mystic Tan® to the Nordstrom dressing room on Martin Luther King day because I had a dream. A dream of looking good in a bikini. A dream of buying my first new bathing suit in seven years.
Seven years ago I was a skinny rail of a woman, a leftover bag of bones after going through an atrocious breakup, and smoking a pack of cigarettes a day.
Since then I've quit smoking, married a lovely self-esteem-building man, had another baby, started weight training, and gained 10 pounds. Yeah yeah yeah, it's ten pounds of muscle. Muscle weighs more than fat. You could grate cheese on my abs. Blah blah blah.
Tell that to the florescent lights and the carnival mirror in the dressing room at Nordie's. You'd think if there were a kinder, gentler dressing room somewhere in the galaxy, it would be at the Nordstrom store where service is supposed to be top shelf. Right?
I should have known when the three saleswomen behind the Women's Active counter ignored me, that change was a' brewin' at my once-favorite department store. I wandered over to the next department, called Encore, where a saleslady tried to chase me back into Women's Active.
I actively informed her that the three saleswomen there were useless. She begrudgingly let me into a dressing room that could accommodate me, the baby, the stroller and the seven-year-old. I then got to work trying on black bikinis. My son got to work folding himself into the trifold mirror and then announced, "I can see 18 of me!" When I looked at myself in the same mirror, I thought the same thing. Though I was not as excited about it.
So it turns out that one magical Friday with a little black dress is not enough to combat a Monday with three cruel bikinis.
Call it Mandy's Law.