I don't know why, but last night I went to Marshall's with Dan and my inclination was to purchase two bikinis (one cutesy, one sexy) that were somewhat inappropriate for my body type. I get this strange rebellious streak when it comes to bathing suits. It feels natural and right for me to be as bare as possible at the beach without causing too much attention on myself. In other words, after carefully combing my subconscious and my conscious mind I decided that I really don't want the world to think I'm grossly misinformed over my own body's limitations. There are women on the beach that I see, full figured and sloppy in their postage stamp bathing suits, and think: what is she thinking?? I can be just as snotty and judgmental as the rest of them. Ninety percent of the time, you'll see me stretched out on my towel, all classy in my navy blue one piece with the tummy-slimming panel. Or in my elegant strapless brown one that says to the world.....well nothing. It says nothing. It says, "don't look over here. I'm plump. I'm not here to be hot. I'm here to swim." (that's a low blow regarding the brown suit. It's actually pretty cute. It's just sometimes I want to be the girl in the bikini even though my body isn't quite on board).
Enter the scandalous scraps of bargain store sexiness.
When I put those bathing suits on in the safety of my dimly lit bedroom last night, I know what I'm thinking. I'm thinking I'm practically naked and I like it. I felt sexy: how bizarre. I loathe my body most days. I have issues, believe me. Why did I feel so awesome strutting around in a bikini, with my soft belly gently dipping over the ridge of the bikini bottom? (I originally typed "flopping" but decided that was too mean). I know I look like the "before" picture in one of those diet pill ads. It's really just my stomach that's the technical problem. Call it genetics, call it candy. I have a really soft, protruding stomach. And no kids yet. I don't even want to think about what will happen when I have a baby. I have a few spidery stretch marks on my hips and on the side of my breasts but those are actually not so bad. They are in the exact place where the side straps of the bottom usually cover. My arms and legs are passable. My belly button is a tragedy, though.
One suit is from Jessica Simpson and it's actually pretty modest: a bandeau top with cute buttons, and a sort of boy short bottom. The problem is the short cuts a bit too much into my hip, leaving a slight indentation. You wouldn't notice it unless I told you to look, because there's a pretty busy pattern going on there. I'm pondering buying a different bottom to go with the top if I can't lose the magical 10 pounds likely required to make the shorts fit better.
The second suit is a Tommy Hilfiger bikini with polka dots. A flimsy triangle bikini top and an adjustable bottom with side bows. Very skimpy. It requires a tan, some Xanex, and a truck load of sass. Even my husband, who would support me if I suddenly decided to assassinate a world leader, said carefully, "that bathing suit is definitely making a statement. People will be looking at you."
The villagers are watching, said Foucault. Or was that someone else? I wonder what kind of swimsuit Foucault would wear. Probably something really small. He was French.
I go through life, like most women, wanting to be seen and un-seen at the same time. I want to be the woman on the boardwalk with the ice cream cone and the maxi dress, leaving no doubt to the world of my charm, wit, education. That woman needs no validation. But I also want to be that girl in the tiny swimsuit, standing at the water's edge, brown and soft and womanly.
She's full of mischief. She's a little bit inappropriate. She's making you say: what is she thinking?
