It just happened. The first summer party invitation arrived yesterday.

Some friends of mine just officially announced their annual Memorial Day bash. The hosts always throw a fantastic party out on the lake. Their house, pool, boats, are all awesome (if you’ll forgive me for using that much overused term). We are promised great music from a classic rock band, a beer wagon, grilled food, a pool cabana that comes complete with a professional “slushie” machine and…wait for it…an ice luge.

Attendance will be record-shattering. You never know who could show up at these things. Based on past experience, there will be friends that I’ve known for years and some random people who I haven’t seen for 30 years. In short, this party will rock.

I should be really excited, and I am. Sort of. There’s just one tiny detail that hangs over my head.

Alas, I now need to shop for a new swimsuit. And that, my friends, ranks way lower to me than tax preparation, if you’ve been following my blog lately.

And if you haven’t been following, let’s back up a bit to a post I wrote last September, My Uh-Oh Moment, when I was quite gung-ho about getting into shape after watching a Rocky marathon all day as I munched out on potato chips and Klondike bars. Even this year, I posted Do I Really Need to Make New Year’s Resolutions Because it’s January 1? Since getting into shape is clearly the #1 New Year’s resolution, and would have been mine had I made any, I am in no position to expect sympathy here.

As I risk use of another overused quote at this point, “it is what it is”.

Sure, looking at the calendar, I have 45 days to fix my underlying problem. Yet, I only see the following options:

• Go on a 45 day fast. I don’t want to go to jail for murder.
• Take a medical leave from work and use it to work out and diet like a fiend 24/7, as I create my own fat farm, ala Biggest Loser, without the help of Bob Harper and whoever took Jillian’s place, and with no medical supervision whatsoever. My blog may not have cost me my job, but a medical leave to lose 20 pounds might. And I could die as a result from a shock to my system. This is sooo not reality.
• Resort to the old-school Atkins diet (just Phase 1 of course) and exist off of nothing but hot dog weiners, grilled chicken, burgers without buns, bacon, peanut butter from a spoon, and pork rinds. Been there, done that/lost it/gained it back. Yes, I could lose a pound every 2 days, but my breath will stink as ketosis comes into play, my cholesterol could skyrocket, and the carb-attacks come back with a vengence…along with the pounds. On top of all that, I refer back to the murder thing as I can’t exist without my carbs.
• Sign on for the Activia challenge.  Perhaps Jamie Lee Curtis is on to something. Yes, she looks happy, but I’m not sure becoming “regular” is going to knock off 20. If anyone can verify that this would be a solution, please let me know.
• Take the well-advertised easy route and order that Tummy Tuck Belt that I know is too good to be true, yet I’m sort of drawn to in the infomercial. I can’t wear the belt as a temporary slimmer with a swimsuit, and I’m just not sure that rubbing that “thermal accelerator” stuff on my pooch is going to annihilate it, although those before/after pictures and the scientific charts of “heat vision” photography are tempting.

Since none of these options seem feasible at this point in the game, I’ll cut out the french fries and settle for the sensible tone-up sessions. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be 2 pounds down by then.

And then I’ll head to the mall to seek out the miracle swimsuit of the season–the one that promises to make me look 10 pounds lighter, while increasing my bust size, taking 3 inches off my waistline, flattening my pooch, and giving me that Brazilian butt-lift look. A suit that does all that without feeling like I’m wearing a scuba suit in 98 degrees.

I’ll tote 40 promising swimsuits to the carnival of horrors I call the dressing room, where I’ll try them each on one by one in horrendous lighting and what I perceive as fun house mirrors. Each one will be worse than the next. I’ll then admit defeat, go home with my head hanging, feeling defeated, and suffering from shopper’s elbow.

Why put myself through that? I ask you.

In fact, I’ve already been googling the swimsuit that will do the job. A swimsuit that will camouflage my problem areas, yet be practical enough for swimming and ideally, could serve as a life-preserver at the same time…which could be necessary in the remote possibility that I throw caution to the lake winds and find myself at the end of that ice luge.

I finally found it.

Thanks to Rio Maddison for designing my miracle suit.

Thoughts?