A zebra in leopard spots

Delta and I went wetsuit shopping. I mean, how often does one get to say that! But then again, this is all part and parcel of the fact that we're going to the Galapagos, and how often does one get to say that.

Mr. Pooks recommended a discount diving store to us, so on Sunday, possibly the coldest day yet this century, we buried ourselves as far as possible inside our winter coats and shuffled slowly against the Siberian winds to the diving store.

"We're here for shorty wetsuits," we announced excitedly to the person at the counter.
I even giggled when I said it, the words just sounded so alien in my mouth. Soon enough, we had a couple of them in our hands.

Delta went in first to try his on. A few minutes later and he was back out. "Perfect fit!" he affirmed with satisfaction.
Then I went in. The last time I wore a wetsuit was when I went waterskiing in London when I was 5. And I think the must have given me an adult suit then, because I somehow have memories of the suit being quite loose. Which this one most definitely was not.

I mean, how do you make a skin tight suit, which is really just a rubber skin, and expect a girl to pull this up past her hips? I put my legs in, pulled the suit up my body, everything was going fine, and then suddenly it jerked to a halt.

I tugged.
Nothing.
Harder tug.
Still nothing.
Yep, don't you know it. The wetsuit would not get up past the old posterior.

"You okay in there?" Delta called, hearing my grunts of effort.
"Yes. Just. It. Won't. Get. Up. Past. My. Butt."
And just then I gave a tremendous heave-ho where both my arms pulled with concerted effort and suddenly the suit swooshed up the rest of the way, and I was inside in, this new seal skin on my body. I stood there for a moment, panting from the exertion.

And then I engaged myself in the arduous task of peeling it back off again.

But what can I say. For now, I own a wetsuit. Who woulda' thunk.