While I like to think of myself as thoughtfully resistant to society’s messages to women about beauty and youth, I’ve done my share of seeking flattering, yet low-maintenance ways to package myself and hide my perceived imperfections. My choice of swimsuit this past weekend on a trip to the beach with my kids unwrapped a hidden layer of this battle I hadn’t considered.
At the last minute, I decided to throw on a little green Victoria’s Secret bikini that my sister recently gave me. It’s cute. But with padded, wired cups, it’s not a suit I would have ever tried on in a store. In general, I go for modest, unenhancing swimwear that will last a minimum of a decade.
And if I had tried it on in a store, I probably wouldn’t have bought it because the fit wasn’t… quite… right. The cups are centered just a tad bit wider apart than my girls are, which meant showing off a prominent mole on one breast that the world at large just doesn’t normally get to see. And I was a little afraid to bend over, lest a breast should decide to be liberated from the suit altogether.
Truth be told, however, I looked pretty hot, even if I paused while I glanced in the mirror and considered my stretch marks. Like probably every 33-year-old mother of four in the universe, I have faded, silvery-purple streaks on my thighs and soft little puckers on my belly, like little patches of ruched fabric. I thought a little bit, too, of the cedar tree tattoo on my lower back being exposed. My old (more modest) suit, which was sitting in the drawer, would have covered it.
In a moment of rebellion, I thought:
Why not?
Yeah, I’ve given birth four times and have the battle scars to show for it, but I’m also slender and cute and tattooed. All of this is me. And it’s good.
I left the old suit in the drawer and we headed to the beach.
When we got there, however, I found myself resistant to peel off my clothes and go swimming. I busied myself, smearing sunscreen on the kids and then rearranging the picnic table and the piling up the kids’ clothes while they took off toward the water. I sat at the table and watched them for awhile, breathing in deeply the breeze from the lake.
I also watched the other women and noted their swimwear and the varying degrees of comfort displayed. The beach was fairly busy, and there were plenty of body and skin types and degrees of modesty represented. I found myself appreciating the whole beach environment with a bit of anthropological interest: a place for strangers to walk around in underwear-like apparel that is inappropriate in nearly every other social situation. Letting it all hang out. (Or at least some of it.)
I marveled at the way each body on the beach was uniquely designed. And I wondered in particular about each woman’s search for the swimsuit she had on. Had she agonizingly tried on two dozen different styles and cuts from three different stores? Was it ordered from a catalog? What is it about the suit she has on that she liked? Was she the recipient of a hand-me-down suit like mine? How does she feel about being in the suit?
My son insisted that I go swimming, and I gave in, not before awkwardly smearing sunscreen on my own back. As I waded out into the water, I was self-conscious about my swimsuit choice, like junior high coming back to haunt me, but there was an unexpected twist. I was not worried about someone looking at me and judging my imperfections. I was worried about judgments like this:
She must really think she’s something special, showing off her tattooed, bikini-clad body.
I can’t even believe I’m about to write this, but… I think I was afraid of coming across as too hot.
Not sure when I forgot about all my imperfections. My stretch marks and moles. My pasty white skin and my lack of grace as I move about the world in general. (When I run, I look like poultry.) Putting on the suit at home, I had beheld my body honestly in the mirror. Seeing it for what it is, I had decided it was beautiful anyway.
So beautiful, in fact, that it’s possible that someone would look at me and decide I was trying to get attention on purpose by wearing such a provocative little number.
It took me by surprise to realize this.
Maybe it turns out that my usual, relatively utilitarian choices in swim wear are not necessarily all about covering up perceived imperfections. Maybe I’m winning the battle against societal messages better than I think. Maybe choosing to wear my old swimsuit is more about making the choice to be, well, modest.
After a brief dip, I put my tank top back on over the suit, producing a prominent heart-shaped wet spot on my shirt. It dried as we picnicked and hung out on the sand and visited with friends who happened to be there. It was a lovely, relaxing day, that was ultimately way more about the kids and sand and water than it was about my swim wear. (See photos below.)
I’m going to pull out my old suit for our next outing to the beach. Not to cover imperfections, but to be comfortable. We spent all last summer covered in construction dust as we renovated an old farm house, so it really didn’t see much action.
Besides, I’ve had it for about six years. By my calculations, I’m good for another almost half a decade. The green bikini can stay hung up.
