Dying to Find the Right Bathing Suit: The grief cycle as it relates to appearing half naked in public.

Denial

After Fat Smashing 9 pounds off my already petite frame and achieving an all-time low weight since high school, I find myself in the British Virgin Islands on a couples trip feeling super-hot and sexy. Basking in the sun and my friends’ comments of, “Ohmigosh, you look amazing!” Soaking in all the peace and alcohol three days sans kids can buy. And purchasing a bathing suit I would normally never—and should never again—wear: A teensy-weensy black and white bikini. See-through top. Barely-enough-material-to-contain-my-42-year-old-ass bottom. Which at the time, from far away, I feel quite sure could pass for 32.

(Maybe even 22, if you squint real hard and down a few nutmeg encrusted dark rum floating Pain Killers, the island’s drink specialty.)

Anger

Well, that was a big load of hoo-ha. And so am I. Those 9 pounds reappeared in no time. The reality: I am too old and too fat to wear a super-sexy nipple-exposing ass-baring bikini. Instead I settle into a girl’s size 16 hot pink Roxy two piece I originally bought for my 11-year-old. The bottoms were too large for her; the top too small. The fit is quite the opposite on me. But whatever. I take the dregs, because that’s exactly what I look like anyway.

(Especially my thighs. Those cottage cheesy motherfuckers.)

Depression

Now there’s some sad things known to man/But ain’t too much sadder than/The tears of a clown. In my striped boyshorts with the whimsical polka dotted belt and bandeau top in that same stripey-dotty pattern, I might as well be wearing a red foam ball on my nose while honking my tricycle horn at the pool. Nothing says more about a woman’s self-esteem, not to mention her mental health status, than her choice of bathing suits. Here, mine is clearly crying through a fake smile, “Go ahead! Laugh at me! I WANT you to. Seriously. I am one funny woman, with swimwear to match.”

(Sad, sad, sad. Shoot me now.)

Bargaining

Look, there’s no sense in being depressed about it. Being alive, even when you look like this in a bathing suit, is better than the alternative, right? So here’s the deal: I’ll just buy this little number from Delia’s—that’s right, the same Delia’s my tweenage daughter shops at—and everyone just be nice and say it looks cute on me. Because every 42-year-old woman needs a lavender and neon green ruffled bikini, don’t you think? And at least this one covers my ass. Sort of. I mean, mostly, anyway.

(Smile and nod encouragingly.)

Acceptance

Though hard for me to believe sometimes, with all my running and spinning and elliptical-ing and frantic yo-yo dieting, I actually look decent. For my age, that is. And it’s time to start acting it. No more emperor’s new swimwear. No more hand-me-down Marshalls girls’ department rejects. No more clown suits. No more frilly little nothings best left to teenagers. I buy something more appropriate for the more mature me—a Michael Kors brown floral tankini that covers everything it’s supposed to and then some. I vow to wear it with pride, along with my age. Until I debut it at the beach and my eight-year-old asks, “Mommy, why are you wearing a grandma bathing suit?” and I know for a fact, positively one hundred percent, I will never wear the damn thing again.

(And so I do not pass go, do not collect $200 dollars—it would be all wasted on new bathing suits anyway—and start the cycle all over again.)

Comments

[Stone]

That was the funniest thing i've ever read.....you are HILARIOUS. Loved it. my solution is the old swim skirt (hate it) or 'booty shorts' over the bikini bottom (bunchy bulky blah). i'm still laughing about the clown nose. Been there, done that. Ruffles and stripes will camoflage right? not right....so funny. Thanks for sharing...