the string bikini

Yesterday marked a milestone in my life: the day I dared to wear a string bikini to the beach. Technically, my first swimming suit ever, as an infant, was a string bikini, but that was years before America's puritanical and body-obsessed culture took over my psyche. The first bikini I wore as an adult was purchased 6 years ago, when I took a last-minute trip by myself to Barbados to escape from an especially dreary Philadephia February. After several years of running regularly I summoned the courage, but I still played safe and bought a black two-piece suit; black, you know, is slimming we're always told. My only request to the travel agent was to stay somewhere quiet, far away from the hedonistic island resorts, so I was booked into a small hotel in a restored British colonial building right on the beach. The first day I was a bit unsure about the bikini, so I chose to wear the traditional one-piece suit I had also brought with me. As I wandered onto the beach, I quickly realized I was by far the most conservatively dress person. All the women were wearing bikinis, and the men had opted for the banana hammock, the meat hanger, the Speedo. It is critical that I mention that hotel was booked entirely with British pensioners, retirees to Americans; therefore, my beachmates were on average 40 years older than I. There was even an octagenarian sporting her bikini in a wheelchair. The next day, I wore the black bikini. When I moved to Spain, I bought two new two-piece swimsuits: one was a red "tankini" and the second was a blue and white gingham traditional bikini. For our first couple trips to the beach, I wore the tankini, but again I felt overdressed. So after several weeks I worked up the nerve to wear the gingham bikini. I was so happy I had. I found I loved the feeling of water on my belly as I swam out into the sea. The tankini was pushed to the back of the dresser drawer. After two summers of regular swimming, the blue and white bikini began to show signs of wear. The blue had faded, and the fabric had lost a lot of its stretchiness. It was time for the shopping trip that so many woman dread, more than the annual gyno exam or a tooth extraction, time for a new swimming suit. Obviously, living so close to the Med, there is no shortage of swimsuits. They hang in windows of just about every shop, no matter what else is for sale. "Yes, I'd like a half kilo of ham, and I'll take the yellow and green bikini in the window." I have noticed as I aged, I tend to gravitate toward more brightly colored clothes (I fear the appliqued cat sweatshirts favored by middle-aged American women aren't too far down the road). Therefore, the first bikini I pulled from the rack was pink and orange striped. The blue and white gingham bikini now seemed flirty but conservative, and the old black bikini downright staid. Yes, I wanted the pink stripy number. But the first trip to the beach this summer, the pink bikini remained packed away. I had gained a kilo during the winter months and "felt fat". Therefore, I wore the red tankini. Big mistake. I found myself the youngest person on the beach without a completely exposed midriff. The second day I chose the slightly tattered, well-worn gingham bikini and was happier. Yesterday I was about to do the same, but as I looked at myself in the mirror, I was displeased. The elastic in the waistband was a bit saggy, and the small white ruffle border on the top had a faint yellow stain from two years of suncream. It was time to officially retire this suit and inaugurate the new bikini. I pulled it from the shopping bag and realized how tiny the bottoms were. But I pulled them on, tied on the top, making double knots to safeguard against a strong wave exposing even more of my flesh, and stood in front of the mirror again. With all of the self-criticism we women have about our bodies, the worst I could come up with was "Not bad." As a matter of fact, the suit created more cleavage than I ever thought possible given my 36B chest. Even the tiny bottoms covered my butt well enough. As Big Jim set up our umbrella, staking our claim for the day, I looked around the beach. What had I been afraid of. Spanish women are so free with showing their flesh. Young girls go topless and bikinis clad bodies of all shapes and sizes, including two very pregnant women yesterday. Sure my body will never stand up against one of a 19-year-old, but then again I have no interest in reliving that part of my life. I'll keep my extra 17 years and slightly squishy belly anyday. Just one final test, would the string bikini hold up in the water. I made Big Jim accompany me to the edge of the sea. Just in case the tide washed away part of my suit, I wanted him to be there for retrieval purposes. As I swam farther from the shore I realized the suit wasn't going anywhere, another fear proved to be ridulous. So I gave Big Jim the "thumbs up" signal, and he returned to reading the newspaper. I swam and swam and swam, looking back from the Med to our village nestled in the mountains in the distance and was perfectly happy. hasta pronto, mylifeinspain