I recently found a picture of myself in a bathing suit as a teenager. Looking into my then-face, I remembered how anxious, depressed and obsessed I was with my weight. I was bulimic and I thought I was too fat.
But as I looked at the picture now, all I could think was: what were you thinking? You looked great!
A few days later a FB memory popped up, a pic of me sometime in my 40s, a time when I was probably bemoaning the appearance of a chin hair thinking I was soooo old…
If this pattern holds, there will be a day when I will look at a picture of me now and say, "look at you! You're a babe!"
So why not skip all the angst? Why not appreciate, right here and now, exactly the way I am?
A few months ago I came across an Instagram account of this hilarious Irish redhead strutting her stuff as she showed us her belly roll, lovingly jiggled her arms, playfully slapped her thighs and announced to the world: "I have earned the right to wear this bikini!!!" (In your head, you need to hear this in a thick Irish brogue!)
Oh my, I thought, those bikinis (yes, plural!) are almost as adorable as her jiggly belly-ed self.
I was jealous! And that jealousy? It was telling me something important about what I wanted for myself.
Years ago, in Stasia's Style School, I learned something revolutionary-to-me-then: to dress the way I wanted to feel.
Did I want to feel sexy and free? Then wear that silky soft shirt and unbutton the damn button. Did I want to feel confident? Then wear those boots, gurrrl! And that brass-buckle belt.
I also learned about style not as a thing that trends, but an expression of what/who am I or want to be. Stasia was constantly saying things like: "A bikini body is, simply, a body in a bikini." Like I said, revolutionary, especially to this ex-Evangelical missionary kid.
So when I noticed I was jealous of Irish girl strutting her rolly-pollies in adorable bikinis, something in me took notice. And then in July, shortly before going on vacation to Maine with my husband, I realized I was done with my cute but safe one-piece.
I wanted a bikini.
Reader, I am through and through a Gen X girl who grew up in the 80s, when "bikini body" meant rail-thin, airbrushed models. Add to that an evangelical upbringing where modesty was paramount, my body was seen as a potential source of temptation for boys and men, and you've got a recipe for some serious body shame.
Even though I've long abandoned those Evangelical beliefs (at least literally), the old rules die hard. At 57, at a weight that diet culture would not call "bikini body," part of me still felt anxious about the bikini.
I hadn't hit any kind of a weight-loss goal, not that I was trying. In fact, I'd gained weight. But:
- I was jealous as hell of women who could "pull it off."
- I was onto the flaws in my reasoning.
- And, in line with seeing through young-me's self-judgments, I thought "if not now, when?"
So I bought the damned (actually very adorable, black with white polka dot) two-piece.
At first, I wore it only in Maine, swimming in lakes where there weren't many other people and the people who were there were strangers.
Then I wore it when we visited a friend.
And then one hot day in the middle of Seneca Lake here in Geneva with friends who'd invited us onto their boat—I stripped off my clothes, channeled Baba Yaga minus the chin hairs (but only because I pluck those), and dove.
That night before falling asleep, my mind's eye kept replaying that moment: jumping off the side of the boat… then midair—a moment that turns all cartoon-like into slow-motion, making a split second stretch into a full minute—followed by that exhilarating first touch, then glide, through water. Five seconds, at most, but wow—
Into the darkness I said to my husband, "Did you see me dive?"
He hadn't.
"I am really proud of myself."
"I didn't know it was a big deal for you to dive," he mumbled, half asleep.
These days, in the midst of brazen and daily displays of authoritarian, patriarchal dictatorship, showing AND claiming joy in my body—in public!—feels radical. And, more important than ever, to celebrate.
At 57, I am more myself than I ever have been. Sometimes, I feel scared. But when I pause to notice, sure enough, my fear shows me a young-me whose conclusions made sense at a time when rules were strict, belonging went hand-in-hand with obedience, and stakes for "disobedience" were dangerously high.
(And do you know what? Teenage me is secretly seriously impressed with my bikini badassery.)
Wearing a bikini may be no biggie to some—but to me it is huge. Not to mention an irreverent middle finger to the patriarchy.
What about you? Is there a part of you—an image, a character, a quality—you're both drawn to and scared of? I'd love to know. Reply and tell me, even if it's just to say YES.
Until next time,
xoHeidi
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