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It’s me, Lord.

Yes, me… on the dressing room floor. Oh, Sweet Jesus, you’ve seen me here before – in this shame and brokenness.

I know, starving, oppressed, and exploited humans. My summer wardrobe is low on your list of priorities. I am the worst.

Yes, I was here last year, and the year before.

Ok, every year since 1996.

It’s not in the Bible. Thou shall not swim. Thou shall not frolic half clothed in chlorinated waters. Thou shall use sunscreen. Why? Why aren’t you more specific? Just this one time, why can’t you forbid this activity? I can’t believe that is what I look like from behind?

Dressing room mirrors are not from Jesus. I am of the religious belief you are not supposed to see what you look like from behind. That’s the devil’s work.

If swimsuit shopping were done in a room with no mirrors, would I still contemplate my thighs this absorbedly? Is there any other body topic I scrutinize with this passion? And what is that fresh lump of fleshy hell above my knees?

Am I getting grosser?

Is there a scale for grossness? Is this a loss of elasticity or a flesh gain? I totally switched to Skinny Mochas in March, and how in hells bells is it June? How did that sacrifice not reap more benefits? If my husband cuts back from two to one beer the caloric deficit affords him a 40-pound weight loss. If I gave up food altogether and I only survived on shaved ice, there would still be blurbs of corpulent butt meat poking out of this industrial strength “sliming” lycra spandex vice.

And the slimming top pushes more stuff down and then the slimming bottoms push stuff up and I look like I have Russet potatoes randomly stuffed under different sections of this enormous purple tankini. Wait, that’s my boob. How did it get back there?

Oh, Jesus… I am going to cry again.

Please don’t let anyone come in here and hear me crying again.

Yes, that mall security guy was sweet, bless him. I need to get him a Starbucks card, he went above and beyond, escorting me to my car… calling Justin to make sure I got home safe. But I just knew this year would be different. Not just the Skinny Mochas, I did that thing with the sliced tomatoes and 4 almonds. OH! and I drank like a gallon of green tea and apple cider vinegar like every day? And I know I am 45, but how can I possibly look better buck naked than I do the second I strap on a swimsuit?

Am I swelling?

Is this a spandex allergy?

Does my flesh expand when it touches lycra? And if I am chaffing in this 4×4 dressing room what kind of hellish rash will I manifest by the end of August? The injustice. Remember? I switched to lettuce cups instead of taco shells? Where are those low-calorie credits, that martyr bit reckoned zilch?

Literally, my calves are the size of ordinary people’s thighs? My Viking breeding stock doesn’t bow to this season’s fun fashions. No, it lends more toward the pillaging of the Country Club Cabana’s snack bar and ripping the tanned and toned arms off young maidens in bikinis with tramp stamps lounging around the kiddy pool. They smartly sound off at their toddlers with hyper-metaphorical names, “Spurgeon, Runs-with-Fire, and Talula-Grace! Come eat your tofu-dawg!”               

And who is the mastermind designer that put these ENORMOUS flowers on this suit? I look like I am swaddled in the wallpaper from the nursing home where my great-great Aunt Bambi died in 1984. One of the only decent fitting suits had a massive bird of paradise decorated across the left DD cup. It looked like it could come alive and eat my face.

I know, you have a universe of troubles, but Jesus, help me.

Guide me in ways of the cosmos to something I can wear to a Labor Day picnic without having to be sedated?

Our Father, who art in Heaven… how are these my thighs?

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done… on the beach or swim club as it is in Heaven.

Give us this day our daily carrot sticks.

And forgive me those mashed potatoes and the other mashed potatoes before the last batch.

Lead me not into the junior section and deliver me from the evil of this dressing room.

For thighs are king size, the plumpest, and the grodiest ever. Amen

May your floors be sticky and your swimsuit just perfect!

Love, Jami

This post was originally published at

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Jami Amerine

Jami Amerine is a wife, and mother to anywhere from 6-8 children. Jami and her husband Justin are active foster parents and advocates for foster care and adoption. Jami's Sacred Ground Sticky Floors is fun, inspirational, and filled with utter lunacy with a dash of hope. Her blog includes topics on marriage, children, babies, toddlers, learning disabilities, tweens, teens, college kids, adoption, foster care, Jesus, homeschooling, unschooling, dieting, not dieting, dieting again, chronic illness, stupid people, food allergies, and all things real life. You can find her blog at or follow her on Facebook or Twitter and check out her podcast The Easy Wife.

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