Last month in Greece, I was about to buy a swimsuit when the tag gave me pause. For once it wasn’t the price. It was the care instructions.
ALWAYS cold hand wash
NEVER leave rolled up
ALWAYS rinse immediately after use
NEVER wring, soak or bleach
That was all fine, I guess—or should I say FINE. With the exception of the caps lock, it was pretty normal care instructions for anything coming out of a boutique. They always want you to think of the purchase as an investment in your future, sort of like higher education or a Clarisonic. It’s the only way they can justify the cost.
But then I flipped the tag over. That was when I had the real problem—which still, unbelievably, had nothing to do with the price point.
Avoid powder and choose a neutral delicate detergent or even better, a softener
Beware of sunscreen lotions and tanning oils – they mark and damage swimwear
Please wash each piece separately
Let them rest a day and try not to expose them to direct sunlight
I’m sorry, what? I’m supposed to keep my bathing suit out of direct sunlight? I’m to avoid using sunscreen to minimize the damage to spandex? I have to grant it a Sabbath?
Call me crazy, but I’m not about to treat a bikini better than I do my own skin. I work seven days a week and I expect my swimsuit to do the same, thank you very much.
Delusional as the tag may have been, I decided to buy the bikini anyway. It was a two-piece, high-waist and bandeau retro cut that flattered at least half of me. At this point in time, for reasons I don’t really want to get into right now, I figured it was the closest I was going to come to being comfortable and confident in a bathing suit. It was also 70 percent off. So there was that.
I took the bikini to the register and laid it on the counter. The clerk looked at me, then the swimsuit, then back to me, as if sizing up my fitness for ownership.
“Do you have any questions about Kylie?” she asked.
I looked behind me. “Who’s Kylie?” I asked, turning back around.
The woman held up the bandeau top and narrowed her eyes at me. “Kylie is the name of this swimsuit model,” she said. “All of our swimsuits have personality and style, which are reflected in their names.”
If I knew what was good for me, I would have walked out of the store right then and there. Not because my bathing suit had a name, but because I had chosen one with the name Kylie. With the exception of Minogue, I can’t think of a single Kylie with any redeeming qualities whatsoever. And like all Kylies I’ve met before, this one was about to try my patience in every possible way.
I raised my eyebrows. “I think the tag is pretty clear,” I said. “No water. No sun. Watch the sunscreen…” I waved my hand over the bikini on the counter. All pretty standard for a bathing suit with a first name. “I think I can handle it.”
“I will give you a copy of the full care instructions,” she replied. “So that you understand.”
I did a double take. Understand what? How to nurture my swimsuit during her infancy? How to give Kylie a full and happy life? How to set healthy boundaries for her on social media?
The clerk returned to the counter with a thick binder, from which she removed several sheets of paper. “These are the full terms and conditions of your purchase,” she explained.
“For a bathing suit?!” I asked.
The woman recoiled. “Swimsuit,” she corrected as she flipped through her pages. “Here,” she announced. “Article 3, Section 1. The garment shall always be referred to exclusively as a swimsuit. Use of bathing suit or any derivative term is strictly forbidden.”
I stared at her, my mouth agape. “Humor me,” I said. “What’s Section 2?”
The woman looked back at her pages. “If the swimsuit in question has two pieces, it shall be referred to exclusively as a two-piece swimsuit.”
I raised my eyebrows. “So not a bikini?”
“Never,” the woman warned, waving the sheet of paper. “We’re going to have to update these next year now that monokini is a thing.” She shuddered. “Such a dreadful word.”
“Well we agree on that much,” I replied, digging my debit card out of my handbag. “I’ll show proper reverence to the bath—swimsuit, KYLIE, from here on out.”
“Do you understand the care instructions?” she asked. “No harsh detergent. Only organic softener. Distilled water when it is available.”
I stifled a smirk. Distilled water and organic softener, my ass. Like the ocean itself isn’t full of microplastic and algae. Like my drying rack doesn’t get stored right next to a vacuum cleaner and an old mop. Like 99% of women don’t pee through their swimsuit at least once a wear. Kylie can kiss my water noodle if she thinks I’m going to rinse her in bottled water when I drink straight out of the tap.
“Crystal clear,” I replied. “I usually don’t even use water to wash my clothes. I just spray them with vodka and let them air out in the Finnish countryside.”
The woman looked properly shocked, which satisfied me greatly. If she’s going to go around pretending that her customers are on a first-name basis with a bikini and that it’s reasonable to skimp on sunscreen in the middle of Greece, then I am going to quote obscure Real Simple listicles. I think we should both have license to play up our eccentricity.
“It’s what Princess Diana used to do,” I added. This detail, by the way, is untrue, as is much (but not all!) of this post, if you haven’t guessed already. It’s satire—welcome to the show.
“For drying, lay flat. Never hang,” the clerk continued, thumbing through her booklet. “When not in use, store in a cool, dry place between 18 and 24 degrees.”
“Celcius or Fahrenheit?” I asked.
“Celcius,” she replied.
I pretended to make a note in my phone. “Great,” I said. “Same my cannabis oil.”
“If you have any problems with the swimsuit,” she continued. “Please return it to our store,” she said.
“Any problems?” I asked.
“If it snags or becomes misshapen,” she suggested. “If there is intense fading or staining due to improper use.”
“Improper use?” I asked.
“Water sports,” she said simply. “Mainly.”
I stared at her.
“In that case, bring the swimsuit back,” she repeated. “And we can attempt to resuscitate the fabric.”
“Can I have a card?” I asked. “Maybe something with your personal contact information in the case of an emergency?”
“It’s on the Terms and Conditions,” she replied. She shuffled through her pages once again. “Please do not discard the swimsuit,” she continued. “That’s Article 4.”
I nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m actually purchasing this as an heirloom. I’m going to give it to my nephews someday,” I explained. “I don’t have children of my own, which is why I’m still entertaining this conversation. I have too much time on my hands.”
“This purchase is non-transferable,” the clerk added. “So please do not donate the swimsuit or sell it to a consignment shop.”
“Just out of curiosity,” I said, my voice now dropping to whisper. “What am I supposed to do with the swimsuit— Kylie once she’s lived her best life?” I asked. “In case my next of kin don’t appreciate her like I do?”
The clerk looked at me with great sympathy. “I’m glad you asked,” she said. “With proper use, our swimsuits can last up to ten years.” She turned her back to retrieve a pamphlet from the back cabinet. “This is our Fashion Everlasting procedure.” She pressed the tri-fold brochure firmly into my hand. “When the time comes,” she said.
I looked at the picture on the cover of the brochure. It was a swimsuit, resting on a raft of banana leaves surrounded by pua flowers being set out to sea. The woman expected me to give a Viking funeral to a bikini named Kylie. I have truly seen it all.
I smiled and handed the woman my debit card. “This swimsuit is in very good hands,” I said. “I’ll take her everywhere. I’ll cherish her always. I’ll rinse her every day. I’ll give her the life she deserves.”
And you know what, that is one of the few true parts of this story. Here’s me and Kylie taking Athens by storm.
utterly terrifying. I get the sense that these er, swimsuits are for lounging, not for ‘water sports’ or even getting unnecessarily damp.
Yes – but lounging by the light of the moon! Still… even lounge clothes need to be washed – with fabric softener?!?
Anyway, you know me. I wore this baby in the sun, got some sunscreen on it (SPF 50 thick & soupy), put it saltwater and a public pool. SAT IN THE SAND. Kylie’s in for a ride.
Kylie’s sheltered life is over – and it’s about time!
She needs to live a little. Show her how it’s done!
This is pure gold. You & Kylie do make a killer team though.
why thank you!!!
Don’t forget, Nova: Kylie must also never come in contact with vegetation or wildlife. Also, it can only be in the presence of Latin-based languages. The Germanic tones can and will irritate her delicate fibers.