Honesty Rocks
“I love everything about this look,” I told the saleslady when she had me try on the hot pink 80’s throwback french cut Brazilian strappy bikini. In the dressing room at the Bikini Hut, facing the mirror at exactly the right angle, standing perfectly still, sucking in this and sticking out that, I could make it work. I could almost look like my idea of what I should look like, or maybe my idea of what I did look like, in the actual 80’s.
If I had to breathe or move, here now, in reality of 2022, then bulges inconsistent with my desired image would become apparent. And I did want to breathe and move, if I’m being totally honest. But man, I also wanted to look like that version of me — that almost barely maybe if I squint or do a cleanse or dermabrasion or something more drastic, can do the hot pink thing.
“I sell a lot of these, can’t keep ‘em in stock,” Vera the sales lady said.
I’d arrived at the Bikini Hut with intent to purchase. My latest beach dancing passion had me winding up in the actual ocean, swimming(!), and it seemed both practical and more chic to ditch the soggy shorts/jog bra look and acquire an actual swimsuit. The hot pink strappy was neither practical nor chic, not on me anyway.
Parts that should stay in were at risk of coming out, and parts that in our culture are typically covered were not covered, not reliably. Though hot pink strappy did tickle my sexy jester persona, my actual body — this one — longed for something I could dance-swim-dance in, in North America, without a lot of fanfare.
Vera, the sales lady said, “It’s sooo cute on you.”
“Well,” I said, “it’s fun, that’s for sure.”
After trying on many, many other bikinis, in desperation I decided to try on a one-piece. It was plain and royal blue and reminded me a little of the one-piece Speedo I wore as a kid for P.E., and also the suits worn by the fit grannies at the YMCA pool.
Sexy Jester didn’t like it. But I put it on, and it instantly felt good. I could exhale, all the way, with all the parts safely ensconced. The material was clearly designed to get wet and dry quickly, and it was flattering, in a simple way, without padding here and cut outs there. A basic suit.
“Well that looks great on you!” Vera said.
“Yeah,” I said, bopping up and down a bit and shimmying in the mirror to test drive the hold.
“That is the suit I wear when I take my grandkids to the pool,” she continued, “I just don’t want to be that crazy grandma in the bikini anymore,” she said, chuckling. “Now, if I go to the beach it’s a different story.”
“You have a great figure,” I said.
“But the skin,” she said, pulling up the skin of her fit, tanned arm, lifting her shirt to show me her slim, aging beach bunny stomach, “it’s the skin.”
We traded compliments and complaints about our bodies and then agreed we were both fortunate, at our ages, to get to enjoy living where we do near the water.
I can’t wait to rock my grown-up suit at the next dance and swim and move and breathe freely in this body while I still can. In 5 years, 10 years, however many if I live that long, I’ll perhaps remember the day I graduated to one-piecers, the day I was still healthy and fit enough to dance and swim with friends on the beach, in this body as it is, today.
I’m gonna keep going.
