File 21 - This Beach Baby, That's Who!

Beach body.  I f**king hate the term "beach body."  I mean, not a body that is found, on a beach. That is terrifying and horrific.  It requires the immediate attention of the police and forensics.  There needs to be identification and evidence collected.  Autopsy.  Interviews conducted.  Why are we wasting so much time????  Whoops.  I am off topic.  What I was referring to was the preposterous idea that there is a prototype of how your body is supposed to look, to go on the beach.  I call bullshit on this.  I also call bullshit on anyone ever actually being fully satisfied with this said "beach body".

Summer is not my favorite season, but it is my favorite season to do things, with my family.  You know what isn't my favorite?  Bathing suits.  If it were up to me, I would never wear one again.  I can't remember ever being comfortable in one.  Well, maybe pre-puberty.  I have this memory of my family travelling to Florida, when I was 12.  I had bought my first bikini, since I had, you know.....changed.  My step-sister and I got matching ones, but in different colour tones.  I remember loving the colours, but feeling super anxious about it.  But, we were on vacation, far away from everyone we knew, so I thought it would be fine.  After all, it was just my step-sister and I, my older step-sister and her friend, my parents, and my great aunt and uncle.  The first morning we are there, us four girls change into our bathing suits. I gingerly made my way out to the living room. Then I heard it.  A giggle and then "Wow, she has bigger boobs than me."  My sister's friend.  I didn't make it back into the bedroom, before I burst into tears.  I know, I know.  Who cries because they have big boobs?  This beach baby, that's who!

But, seriously, this is how I have felt, ever since, wearing a bathing suit.  Like, every time I take off my bathing suit cover, I am walking back into that living room.   I know, it seems extreme and a little cray, but, I just feel  Listen, I know no one is looking at me.  And if they are, and judging, well, that is their own twelve year old self, with boob issues, that they are dealing with.  Unfortunately, Anxiety is a louder and more obnoxious b*tch, than Rationality.  So, when it came to bathing suits, I would just avoid situations, where one was required.  If it was necessary, I would dash, as quickly as possible, from waters' edge, into the depths.  That wasn't attracting any awkward attention to myself, at all......FFS.

Then I had the littles.  And like I have mentioned before, they had no time for my shit - not my twelve year old self's shit, not Anxiety's shit....NO TIME!!!  They needed to get to the pool!  There was no more dodging.  No more dashing.  I was going to have to walk out into that living room, moving at the pace of tiny legs.  The thing is, I wasn't alone, this time. I had a tiny little hand, in mine.  And they were looking at me, for encouragement, for security.  Not, alternately, for me to be acting like a crazed maniac, yanking at my bathing suit, eyes wildly scanning the parameter, while I dragged them behind me, like a rag doll, to get into the water.

So, you know what I did?  I saved up a little cash and I invested in a bathing suit, that I really love.  Okay, two bathing suits.  I am calling them my "sexy Mom" suits.  I'm not going to let my preteen self control me.......just my four and six year old.  Does this mean that I am going to be strutting around poolside, in stilettos, drinking a martini, at our next aquatic event?  Ah, no.  Well, with the exception of the martini part.  Does it mean that I feel totally comfortable, in a minimal piece of fabric made of spandex and nylon.?  Also, no.  But they fit perfect and I feel pretty damn good in them.   

I choose to give the peddlers of this beach body concept, the benefit of the doubt.  I will assume that they are literally referring to a body, any body, that will be going to the beach.

Does Mommy need to lose her shit?

Not this week.