“I’m wearing Nike yoga shorts that I thrifted and cut to make a little shorter/more comfortable for swimming.”
My friend Cecilia once told me something I’ve never forgotten when referring to how she felt wearing a bathing suit: “I look great either fully clothed or totally naked,” she said. “There’s no in-between.”
I know very few people who really enjoy a bathing suit. Shopping for them is worse. Not just psyching yourself up to look in the mirror after hiking it up and snapping yourself in but also deeply and honestly assessing the comfort level: Is this going to ride up or down? Will it cut off precious blood flow to my left armpit? No amount of high waists or hipster cuts have ever helped. I could not be fooled. For me, all of it was always bad.
And then there is this whole other can of Lycra to consider: How will I feel walking from chair to pool or whatever body of water one is lingering nearby during the hottest months of the year, knowing all persons present can actually see me in this thing when I am not sure I want to see me in this thing?
I didn’t grow up hating my body, but I’ve still always felt more comfortable hiding it. Maybe hiding is the wrong word — concealing is better — in a constantly rotating cast of printed vintage coats and collars buttoned up to the tippy-top. That’s where I’m at: wrists, ankles, earlobes. Nothing more. Diane Keaton was my person, as I suspect she likely avoided ever thinking about bathing suits in public, too.
