My new swim suit arrived!
Jun.23, 2006, filed under Miscellany
I would like to give a big thumbs up for Swimstop, who had my order out to me the day after they received it, complete with a personal email to tell me it had been dispatched and say thank you for the order.
That’s the sort of customer service we like to see from internet shops.
The TYR Socket Rockets are weird. There is no separate seal around the goggles. Where I would expect to see a silicone seal or a sponge seal (as on the Speedo X-Frames and Speed Socket respectively — I own both of these and they have their pros and cons), the Socket Rockets have what appears to be a line of stuck-on silicone sealant of the sort one might use for gluing an aquarium together. The ‘universally adjustable bridge’ is another strip of strap material. They look, it has to be said, rather cheap. I’m not convinced by the leak-free claims.
However. That said, the orange-red metallic finish is exactly what the doctor ordered, and I have never tried a pair of goggles that give such fantastic peripheral vision. Trust me: when you have only the one eye, peripheral vision is something about which one becomes close to obsessive. It’s why I stopped using the X-Frames.
The Maru suit is hot. I tried it on and thought: “Christ, I’m fit.” I actually felt like I didn’t look dissimilar to the model in the picture — and that’s the sort of ego boost any girl could use.
My recent burst of shopping for sports kit has been a bit of an ego boost all round. I was in buying a new pair of running shorts a couple of days ago, as my old ancient ones have so many holes in them they would make a good pasta strainer. I grabbed my normal size from the railing and tried them on, and then had to take them back because they were too big. I stared at the label wondering if they had made a mistake. I remember being a size 12. When I went down to an 8 I have absolutely no idea.
And yet, bizarrely, despite this obvious evidence that I am not turning into a lardy wobbly fat bird as a result of not cycling to work any more, I don’t feel like I’ve dropped a dress size. I still have a complex about my arse and thighs. Despite being an intelligent, fairly rational (quit laughing at the back) woman who understands that the images portrayed in adverts and in Hollywood bear about as much resemblance to the real world as the special effects in The Abyss, I find myself looking at the perfectly normal, natural shape of my legs and buttocks, comparing them to the likes of Angelina Jolie and Rebecca Romijn, and finding them wanting.
Gods. Sometimes it pisses me off what we do to ourselves in the name of culture.
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Singularity
~something that is singular as (a) a separate unit, or (b) unusual or distinctive manner or behavior; PECULIARITY;
~the quality or state of being singular;
~a point at which the derivative of a given function of a complex variable does not exist but every neighborhood of which contains points for which the derivative exists;
~a point or region of infinite mass density at which space and time are infinitely distorted by gravitational forces and which is held to be the final state of matter falling into a black hole. Sight
