You’ve officially survived another winter of dreaded family holidays, surprise engagements, and disguising your 2pm blackout as “brunch” without entirely losing your dignity. But that also means that in the months between November and March, betches were busy living their best fucking lives, Instagramming cheese plates and colorful fruit cocktails, all while pulling off the illusion that their ass underwent months of squat-like workouts, thanks to overpriced Lulu leggings.
Sure, these PPCS (Post Partum Cuffing Season) side effects are totally justified, but unfortunately for me you, the social media façade that just upped your followers prob also upped your pant size. Bikini season is right around the corner as of like, yesterday, and your besties are dying to be sexually objectified at Tao Beach, but that also means they’re counting on you to pose for pics with them that scream “GIRLS TRIP!!! But also can you believe this cleavage rn?” while debuting swimwear the size of a hair scrunchie. So if there’s one thing I know better than the exact distance it takes to get from work to the bar, it’s everything a betch goes through following the pre-bikini season DGAF:
Stage 1: The Invitation
After victoriously indulging in an all-carb diet for four months straight, the only phone call that’s dreaded more than your gyno calling to deliver test results is your best friend calling to invite you on a ratchet river retreat. This means pausing your Barefoot Contessa binge and getting off your ass in hopes of finding a swimsuit that’ll cover your perma-winter layer so you don’t feel like an IRL Flubber on a rocky boat. Being a possessor of chronic Stage 4 FOMO the good friend that you are, you reluctantly agree to a weekend of staged candid bikini photos while hiding behind a donut pool floatie, as you confirm with a high-pitched “OMG YES I’M SO THERE!” Congratulations, you’ve just survived your first two-way calling attack.
Stage 2: The Casual Browse
Does your recent Google search history read, “bathing suits that hide my back fat”? Bcuz same. Every betch has Googled some sort of self-loathing ridicule at a point in her life, which means that the quest for the perfect bathing suit has officially begun. But first you attempt to save a little face before baring it all to the poor Victoria’s Secret employee and peruse your options via Google. After hours of research, only to find yourself 68 weeks deep into Kylie Jenner’s sluttiest bikini photos, desperate times call for desperate fucking measures, and your Google searches quickly go from “bathing suits” to “how much did Kim’s fat transfer cost?”
Stage 3: The Dressing Room
They say the camera adds 10 pounds, but they also say the fitting room mirror adds like, 20. Idk if it’s the shitty interrogation-room lighting, or the fact that my “monthly” bloat has just become a way of life, but TBH entering a woman’s fitting room is like entering the fucking Chokey. After trying on the store’s entire swim inventory, the only thing you’ve actually accomplished other than realizing you’ve unknowingly been growing a winter forest below the navel border for the past three months, is realizing that the trendy off-the-shoulder bikini top you tolerated serves no practicality or purpose other than showcasing unwanted armpit vagina.
Stage 4: The Crash Diet
As you leave the store, you make a vow to yourself to go full Emily Blunt for two weeks and to eat nothing but a cube of cheese, but only when feeling like you’re gonna drop dead. You stick it out for a solid three hours until your drive home automatically lands you in the In-N-Out drive thru line because whatever, you’re getting cheese fries. You start randomly developing a sense of false confidence and mutter shit to yourself like, “If they can’t accept me at my pregnant Kim K., then they don’t deserve me at my revenge bod Khloé.” #BIBLE
Stage 5: The Prep
Earth to betches: Bikini season is only like 26% about the actual bikini. You don’t get a Chipotle burrito to show off the foil wrapping, do you? I’d be lying to you if I said I’m not the best version of myself when I have a tan. And you’d also be lying if you denied that. It makes you look, like, 10 pounds lighter and it gives the illusion that you physically saw the light of day this winter other than through your sliding glass door while you were covered in potato chip crumbs. You resort to whatever painful process it takes to distract people from the slightest amount of “excess love” hanging off your hips like a fucking ornament, and waxing off that 1960s bush you’ve been harboring like a fugitive. This results in spending more money on your physical appearance than the value of the actual vacation itself, but that’s just, like, the rules of Instagram feminism.
Stage 6: The Presentation
Whether or not your summer bod is ready, a betch knows that the key to living her best vacation life is liquid confidence. ‘Tis the season for 9am beer bongs and chips and guac as a meal replacement, so you finally decide to proudly wear your winter bloat like a badge of honor, because #LoveYoself and (hi) DGAFing is your specialty. Vacays may not be about what you wear, but they sure as hell are about what you drink, so chances are, nobody in their drunk state of mind will even notice your nonexistent insecurities. Plus, drunk goggles make everyone look like a fucking 10, so you win. Now sit back, RELAX, and get that fine-ass awesome personality over here and take a shot with me.
If you relate, you need to read: The Sexiest One Pieces That Will Hide Your Winter Weight
