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Repackaging
I was going to write about gentrification this week. A magic marker and spray painted bit of graffiti invited me to have my say about the gentrification of the Royal Hotel. I understand the graffiti. But the dialogue about gentrifying the County has been done. It’s been said. If the graffiti “artist” wants passersby to believe the Royal Hotel is being gentrified, thereby denying access to everyday folks, so be it. But I believe the “artist” would be wrong. The hotel isn’t being gentrified. It’s being re-gentrified. But whatever floats your boat.
In the last 40 or so years, the Royal became a bit of a bragging point for boomers who dared to drink there and talk about it. The Royal Hotel had become a place for the under-housed to live—not live well, just marginally alright. Truthfully, you and I know the hotel was in a very sad state of repair/disrepair when it was put on the market. The new owner is reviving the place. But that’s all I have to say, except that I look forward to seeing the finished product. It can only bring renewed prosperity to the community in a dozen or more ways—and not just to the gentry. Nope. No more talk of the Royal Hotel. The grand old dame of Main Street is getting a facelift. No more lipstick and mascara.
So, what am I on about this week? Well, this week I’m on about my favourite season, which is bathing-suit season, aka beach body season. I do love summer. I do love a cool dip in the pool. I do love my body, just the way it is. But right now, I don’t have a bathing suit. To that end, this past weekend, LOML and I happened to have need to make a trip to BelleVegas to pick up stuff.
He did his “pick up” at Sam’s. I decided, “I’m here, maybe I’ll look for a swimsuit.” I have a preference for very plain swimwear. The plainer, the better. No frills. No flounces. No tricky crossover straps. No hidden tummy tamers or built-in bras. It has to be one piece and rather modest in design. Additionally, I refuse to pay more than 50 bucks, all in, for a swimsuit. Fifty bucks is at the top of my budget because I am a cheapskate. And as they say on the fixy-fixy shows, there’s no wiggle-room on that amount, although there has to be wiggle room in the bottom part of the suit.
Well, I wasn’t prepared for swimsuit shopping. I never really am. But this time, I was less than my usual “unprepared.” The “big store” had about 17,000 women’s swimsuits hanging on racks and lying in piles on the floor. There didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason for a size 24 hanging next to a 6. Why the H-E-double-D-cup-built-in-bras would a bathing suit cost $179?
After pawing through two of the oceans of racks of suits, I picked five to try. Yup, I know. I know. Trying on swimwear means trying to get an idea of what you’re buying while looking in a mirror that has been lit by international airport runway lighting and rockin’ your undies under the swimsuit —hygienic, dontcha know? GAH!
I trudged over to the change room lineup. And what a lineup it was. There were, literally, dozens of weary women waiting patiently for a chance to take it all off and squeeze it all into a swimsuit. The hot, humid weather does that to a person. Makes them swimwear crazy. It was about ten minutes into my wait when I thought, “Who exactly is going to see me in my own backyard pool and why I should bother buying an expensive lycra contraption anyway?” Who was I kidding? Back to the racks went my picks and out to the mall to find LOML.
LOML knows better than to ask how one of my clothing hunts went. Perhaps it was seeing me without a shopping bag or it could have been the look on my face. Likely it was the fifty years spent with a swimwear resistant person that has taught him “don’t ask.” Yup, it’s going to be another summer of old gym shorts and ratty tank tops for this gal. My pool, my rules. No gentrification in my yard!
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