Bikini

I'm hoping the title of this post doesn't scare people away.  Because, really? What kind of interesting reading can this be for people? You either wear a bikini or you don't right? Do I really need to devote an entire blog post to the subject?

Turns out I do.

I'm going to turn forty next year.  I've noticed that on the beach, amongst my age group there are three different types of women: the ones trying to cover up all their "problem" areas with modest one pieces, tankinis, sarongs, and board shorts.  Then you have the proud bikini wearing mamas, who most likely  have the discipline to put in the hours at the gym to maintain their bodies.  And last is the group who'll wears anything they want- usually bikinis- despite the fact that they are far, far, far from anyone's idea of the Sports Illustrated Cover Model.

I'm usually in the first group, though I spent most of the past year half-heartedly trying to get to the ranks of the second group.  But for the latter half of my vacation, I forced myself to be in that last group, and I'm glad I did because I ended up making some surprising (to me, anyway) revelations.

But first let me take you back a bit.  When I learned last December that I would be vacationing in Hawaii this summer, I told myself that I was going to work hard and dedicate myself to getting into shape.  If you've been following this blog for any length of time, then you probably died of laughter before you even finished reading that sentence.  No one would be surprised, least of all myself, to hear that I didn't do it.  I didn't do it, and even worse, I sabotaged myself in the 3 months before I went and gained 5 pounds on top of the ten I wanted to lose.  (Why do I operate this way?  I don't know.  I'm sure the psychological reasoning is very Freudian and fascinating, but my interest in getting to the bottom of it is heavily blocked by the bottles of wine and kettle chips. It's hard to get past them.)

To get back to the story, I was a little disgusted with myself.  My friend had posted a picture of herself and her husband from their vacation in which she was wearing a bikini and looking fabulous. She was holding her husband's hand and grinning over her shoulder at the camera, while the sun created fabulous light that played on the ocean's surface in the background.  I wanted so badly for that to be me.  That picture was my inspiration and motivation for the entire time that I dedicated myself to my goal, the whole 4 out of 24 weeks of it.

Once on the island, it was with not a little self-loathing and bitterness that I unpacked my tankini and  my "slim fit" one piece, which, my friends, don't let the name mislead you, is not for slim people.  It's for chubby people who want to appear slimmer- and trying to pull it on is as much fun as trying to pull on a rubber corset (or so I would imagine, for those of you whose eyebrows just shot up).   I should also mention that snorkeling in that thing almost caused me to pass out since, even on land, it only permitted me the shallowest of breaths.  Underwater with a snorkel?  Fuhgettabouit.


Let me stop here for a moment and clarify something:  there is nothing wrong with tankini's or board shorts or one pieces for those people who like to wear them.  It's just that it's not a good idea to wear them when you're using them as a subconscious punishment to yourself.  And that's what they were to me.  I used to love the way I felt in a bikini.  I wore one almost everyday of every summer growing up- whether I was lounging in my backyard or at the beach.  I like gliding through water in one.  I like the way my back looks with that one string across the back.  I just like them.  And after I had kids, because my body was not the same, because my hips were wider and my stomach softer, I was ashamed of it.  So when I was pulling on the massively constricting one piece, or trying to swim around while a dumb tankini top kept floating up around my middle, I told myself that it was because I wasn't worthy anymore of a bikini.   In my head, I was protecting others from the horrible vicious sight of me in a two piece.  


How did I get to be so mean and critical of myself? 

One of my favorite people, Nora Ephron had wrote “Oh, how I regret not having worn a bikini for the entire year I was twenty-six. If anyone young is reading this, go, right this minute, put on a bikini, and don't take it off until you're thirty-four.”  I wish I had listened to her.  My metabolism is way past what it was at 34, and gravity is working it's weird magic all over my body, but I decided on that day, while there in Hawaii at least, I was going to be nicer to myself.  That meant forgiving myself for not looking like a bikini model.  It meant trying to push past all the cultural expectations and worries about what I looked like to others.  It meant joining the ranks of  that third group on the beach.  

So the next morning, I ditched the fam and ducked into a bathing suit shop where I bought a cute  bikini in my favorite color of blue.  Then I wore it.  I wore it despite my stomach that does a weird tri-foldy thing when I sit down.  I wore it despite my love handles.  I wore it even though my legs jiggled way more than I was comfortable with.  Did I feel great?  Please.  I can't lie.  It took a while to get over the self consciousness of it.  But I tell you what.  After ten years of swimming around with yards of extra material from tankinis and swim skirts floating up and getting in my way, it felt so good to snorkel in those blue, blue waters unencumbered by flappy board shorts or a waterproof corset.  And the bikini also gifted me with my most favorite souvenir of the whole trip: the tan line left by that one string across my back.

*Ideally, a blog post titled Bikini would contain a picture of me in said bikini.  This is the best I can do.  Swimming in a bikini was fun.  Lounging in a bikini was great.  Walking around a beach with my kids looking for sea turtles  in a bikini required shorts.  Sorry.  It's a bit of a cop out.  Maybe next year I'll write Bikini Part 2, in which I'll work up the courage to love myself enough to not care about being photographed while walking around in a two piece.  Then again, that probably won't be necessary since I fully plan to hit the gym at 5 am every day this year.   I'm going to get in shape.  It's going to really happen! I can feel it! 

(wink)