Tried-and-True
Packing has always been among my least favorite things in the world to do. But, recently, trying on bathing suits in preparation for packing has earned a spot on my Top 10 Most Hated Things to Do List, right alongside taxes. As I write this, I’m in the midst of planning for a trip to the beach with my family. We are flying to Hilton Head, SC, and will need to share suitcases since the budget airline we booked with charges a ridiculous amount for checked bags. It’s the kind of deal that hooks you in for a cheap price, then holds your luggage hostage. I know I’ll need to be strategic with packing to avoid paying the ransom for a carryon larger than my wallet. And I know I’ll need to tackle it sooner than later.
“Sooner,” I urge myself.
“Today,” I relinquish.
Reluctantly, I lay my beach-worthy clothes on the bed and assess the humble options. There are cover-ups that I’ve been wearing on rotation for almost 20 years, shorts that might require a colonoscopy prep to fit into and, of course, the tried-and-true 15-year-old Lands’ End tankini. It hangs off the edge of the bed, threatening to slide onto the floor like a kid slipping broccoli into the napkin on her lap. The brown tankini looks like it has weathered one too many dips in the Atlantic. It smells like it too. Although it’s dry to the touch, there’s a stench of something that resembles molded seaweed and saltwater. When I dig through the pile and finally retrieve the matching bottoms, stretching them out to assess their shape, the crunch of tired elastic audibly forfeits any chance of this bathing suit making another trip in an overcrowded suitcase. It has seen its last beach vacation.
“...the crunch of tired elastic audibly forfeits any chance of this bathing suit making another trip in an overcrowded suitcase. It has seen its last beach vacation. ”
I bought Tried-and-True after I lost nearly 60 (yes, sixty) pounds of pregnancy weight from my third daughter almost 16 years ago. It has adjustable straps and little ties at the sides that complement my long torso, allowing me to pull it down a little longer some years than others. It’s not the sexiest swimsuit ever created, but it ushered back the post-pregnancy confidence I was pursuing. Throughout the years when my daughters were growing and I needed to buy them new suits each year, Tried-and-True kept performing, and I kept wearing it. I wore it while toting a toddler on my hip and packing coolers and coolers of PB&J sandwiches and juice boxes for lunches on the beach. There were lots of memories and sandcastles built while I was wearing Tried-and-True. One year, my mom convinced me to strike a supermodel pose and took a picture of me wearing it on my 45th birthday – on the same beach where I’m headed now. I loved that photo. Not just because it was my favorite swimsuit, but because I felt healthy and beautiful in that moment as I embraced another year passing on the calendar.
I pick up the tankini top and breathe in the musty smell of it one more time, pushing it away at arm’s length and crinkling my nose. I consider Googling how to remediate dry rot, then I toss it back to its corner of the bed, allowing it to slide to the floor in a brown heap of surrender. I need to let it go. The stench of it. The memories it still holds. Not all of them, but some. Ugh. Another byproduct of divorce … like dry rot stealing what was tried-and-true.
I stare at my other bathing suit options, but none are as reliable as the brown tankini. So, I grab my phone. Ironically, my Instagram feed is flooded with ads that promote “tummy control” one-pieces on models who could be angels for Victoria Secret. Really? Do our phones read our minds now? Do our minds have filters that convince us we’ll look like bathing suit models? I imagine myself with a slight golden tan sporting a few options that don’t scream, “I’m a grandmother,” and take the bait. I order several suits, spending enough to get free, expedited shipping, and throw in a new coverup for good measure.
The selections arrive just in time. A few of them actually work. Not exactly supermodel-worthy, but good enough for my 54-year-old body to remember how she felt at 45. I throw the others on the return pile.
Tried-and-True is officially retired. R.I.P. This is an end of an era.
This process shifts something in me … a mindset of getting rid of what’s not serving me well and moving on to what works better. Not settling … just finding what fits me in this stage of life. Maybe, I think, I’m on to something. Maybe.
“ I need to let it go. The stench of it. The memories it still holds. Not all of them, but some. Ugh. Another byproduct of divorce … like dry rot stealing what was tried-and-true. ”
Before I know it, I have all the clothes I own on my bed and I start trying everything on and modeling it in front of the full-length mirror, asking myself the hard questions. Hours go by and I’m still pushing through. I come across the t-shirt I bought on vacation with my former husband and decide that it’s okay to keep it. Divorce doesn’t get to claim all the good memories. Besides, it reminds me of the place we visited, not the man who held my hand when I traveled there. It feels good to claim ownership of the things that are still soft and comfortable. Kinda defiant, really. I like that.
I grab a black garbage bag and toss an impressive pile of clothes into it and neatly hang the ones that make the cut in my closet, organized by color. This purging process feels good. I am getting rid of things that don’t fit, and making space for new things that do. I partner a recently purchased pair of pants with an older shirt that still works, feeling a sense of accomplishment for pulling an outfit together. I start to realize that this packing thing is more tolerable when I enjoy what I am packing.
I haul the donation bag to my car and clear off my dining room table, designating it for vacation clothes. Then, I head to the basement and find the largest suitcase we have, lugging it up the stairs with newfound determination. It’s the same suitcase that accompanied us on our epic family trip to Colorado and Utah for my 25th wedding anniversary. Today, however, it serves a different purpose. It seems ready for a new adventure. So do I.
“I’ll be sipping a cup of Stronger Girl as the sun rises over the Atlantic and making new memories on this trip with the people (and the clothes) that inspire me in this new season of life.”
I return to my bedroom eager to tackle the purging and packing. There is no turning back now. Some of the pairings don’t go as well as the first, but I keep at it and before I know it the packing prep is almost done. I include a few going-out-to-dinner outfits, more active gear for early morning walks, comfy shirts where my newborn granddaughter might land her head for a snooze on my chest, and lightweight shirts I can layer on top of my bathing suit when I refuse to the leave the beach before sunset. I even pack my toiletries and clean out my entire vanity, washing makeup brushes and tossing medicine that expired in 2020.
2020. The year a lot of things in my life expired. The year I should have purged the things I held onto because I thought I needed them, when in reality they smelled like an old musty bathing suit that used to make me feel beautiful. I’m proud of the growth I’ve achieved since then. Through a lot of self-reflection and writing in the last four years, I have ridden myself of many things that don’t fit me any longer, but I guess there’s always room to grow.
As I zip up the extra-large suitcase that holds the progress of my purging and pairing, I feel equipped for this trip with an organized mind (and closet). I imagine the sun rising over the Atlantic without Tried-and-True. It’s time for a change, I reassure myself. The toddler that was on my hip when I first wore it is now a 16-year-old. All those memories that are worth hanging onto will still be with me. I may not be packing PB&J sandwiches any longer, but I’ll be sipping a cup of Stronger Girl as the sun rises over the Atlantic and making new memories on this trip with the people (and the clothes) that inspire me in this new season of life.
Thank you, Lands’ End, for the memories.