I’m having a teen angst flashback. Soon we fly to Florida to visit my dad. A week ago he texted me to bring my swimsuit. I filed that away without a reply. First, I don’t want that much skin exposed to the sun. I have too many tea spots and a crop of moles growing so fast they could be on the Geological Survey. I tell myself I don’t even have a swimsuit. Then I remind myself that I don’t really know how to swim. I’m not a good swimmer. Then I tell my partner about my dad’s request, and he gets excited about the trip, says he’s going to bring his swimsuit and swim. My mind goes pop. This trip is a first. It’s my first time traveling cross country with my partner. First time I’ll be in the same room with him and my dad. First time traveling on an airplane with him. First time wearing a swimsuit in decades. I can’t remember the last time I went swimming in public. A voice in my head says No, it’s not going to happen. There’s a very good reason I do not strip down to my skivvies in public. I’m too embarrassed.
My dad wants to take us on a boat ride to swim with the manatees. My partner is delighted. I’m conflicted. I think we should leave the manatees alone and not stress them out with our presence. But I also know how the public will care more about the future of the manatees if they have a personal experience with them. Being with big animals in their habitat is exhilarating. Manatee tourism is a way to raise consciousness about the impact of humans on the wild. It’s a way to create an economic incentive to protect the manatees. I get it. I do care about the future of the manatees. I’m all for protecting the wild. But I prefer to do it with my clothes on.
Still, the thorny issue of my swimsuit has been raised. There’s a swimming pool at our hotel. There are beaches. It’s Florida with or without the manatees. As joyful as I may be about my age, I just don’t think anyone wants to look at a 70-year-old woman in a swimsuit. Wait, whose voice was that? Of course, that’s ageism. It’s so complicated to say how I feel and witness my own contradictions. A neon sign is flashing the question, What are you afraid of? My inner feminist is poking me with a sharp stick because I think of myself as something to look at. She says women are not for decoration. Do the men around me consider the reaction of their on-lookers when they strip down to their basics for a swim? Are they on display? Are they feeling judged? Why does it feel like I’m being put on display if I wear a swimsuit?
I’m a northerner. I like shade. I wear frosty white zinc sunscreen in the garden. I’m not an athlete. I don’t own a pair of shorts. It’s possible my thighs haven’t seen sunshine in 30 years. Of course, there’s a counter narrative to my self-consciousness. My mother’s voice says no one is going to be looking at you. No one cares. Pop culture reminds me, You are invisible. There are better things to look at. Then my mother starts up again, Get over yourself and put on your swimsuit like a normal person. You shouldn’t even be writing this. What’s the big deal? It’s all in your head.
These thoughts are festering because when I cleaned my room to organize my summer clothes and pack for the trip, I found the swimsuit I purchased at Macy’s in 2017. I was a guest in an empty vacation house with a swimming pool. I got the suit because I thought I might enjoy swimming, but I didn’t. So the suit disappeared behind some t-shirts, and I forgot about it. Until today. I put it on, walked around the house in it, stood in front of the mirror, and got out my phone to see how I looked on screen. Right. I wanted to know how I would look in a selfie. Believe me, I feel the warp. But this is my world now. Phones are out all the time. Photos will be shared. I have posted a couple hundred selfies online over the years. Why not one in a swimsuit?
Obviously, the issue is body shaming. I shame myself. I expect someone to shame me. It’s why we feel self-conscious about aging. I tell myself I’m going to overcome those prejudices. But will I overcome the voice in my head? I tell myself I’m modest. But is it modesty or is it judgementalism? I feel like I should look better than I do. Why? My culture tells me that a woman should look a certain way, and when she doesn’t, she has failed. Of course, I know this is wrong. But it’s very common. My inner feminist encourages me to rebel. But I’ve been rebelling against sexism and gender norms my whole life, and rarely has it made me feel so vulnerable.
Regardless, I put my swimsuit in my suitcase. Here I go. When the moment arrives, if it does, maybe this mental kerfuffle will seem like silly self-indulgence. Maybe my anxiety will evaporate, and I’ll magically blend in with all the other half-naked Florida olds. I tell myself it’s okay to be insecure. I see how sexism and gender norms influence our thoughts and behavior all the way to the grave. I want to think I’ve evolved, but when my brain considers wearing a swimsuit, it taps the same anxious brain chemistry that hit me as a teenager looking in the mirror disappointed I will never be as tall as Cher. I will never be good enough for myself. Self-criticism is so much easier than self-love. Where’s your swimsuit?
Since I’ve been living in the tropicals for the last 35 years I have worn only one style bathing suit my whole like. A string bikini!
And I’m still wearing it! I really don’t care! I hate tan lines!!
I bet you look fabulous. Thanks for the inspiration!
Billie, you should check out Lands End website. They carry very attractive long sleeved swim shirts for people who need to minimize their sun exposure. And in places like Australia, where they are serious about sun exposure, it’s pretty common.
Thank, Kathleen – I will take your suggestion. Much appreciated.
Wow! You really hit the nail on the head with this piece! All the body shaming I’ve done to myself, passed down to me from my dear mother. (I realized a few years ago that some of the shaming had to do with keeping my budding sexuality at bay.). I have a drawer of swim suits from Med to 3XL and check each year to see which one I’ll be using, should I decide to swim. Since I do love swimming, ever since those freezing cold lessons at the waterfront of Camp Manistee, I usually grit my teeth and hurry into the water. Once in the pool/lake/ocean/etc. I feel so good with the water touching my skin that I forget for awhile that I’m supposed to be embarrassed by my bumps and lumps. Thank you for you insightful thoughts!
Great to hear from you, Lynn. Thanks for sharing the view from Camp Manistee. I hope you get to swim this season.
You are DEFINITELY not alone. The struggle is real. All of it, and so is the self criticism.
Signed,
Another 70-year-old-in-a-minute, gal
Thanks for the validation. Sometimes I think my anxiety is all in my head.
Billie – your writing is such a joy to consume! You air the voice so many of us have at this age on so many topics. This piece about swimsuits propelled me to comment. I had a sudden scary medical issue Jan 1 this year – Happy New Year … not. It has been an ongoing stuggle, providing laser-focus moments to mull over life. How short it can be – sometimes suddenly, regrets, wishes, bucket lists, happiness… deep, deep, joy. My ordeal has reoriented my perspective on how much I do/have done for others vs remembering to put ME and MY desires forward more often, and now can as my life’s responsibilities have shifted… ok, I’m still working on this. But through all this reassessing, I have slooooowly realized some hard truths. AMny of us are solidly in Twighlight Years. There is not a lot more time to say “Oh, I’ll do it next time” for missed opportunities. Maybe we need to shift how we go about life now.. even if in small ways to start. Maybe it’s time for US to feel some of life’s simple joys that others have so long enjoyed with carefree abandon. Maybe it’s time to fill OUR souls with the feel of the warm sun on our exposed thighs, the refreshing cool of water on our bared skin in nature, the awe being in close proximity of wild animals in their habitat. To finally experience such things – whatever thay are for us personally… to pause and soak them in with all our senses , these wonders of life… might be magical and not be put off. Putting this all in a shifted perspective, the brief opinions of strangers (if they even exist and why are we giving THEM so much consideration instead of ourselves anyway!) can be snuffed by our 70 year old bad selves in order to put OUR joy and OUR wellbeing and OUR inner glow 1st and foremost! Before the clock stops.
Thank you, Cynthia, for your sage wisdom. I will take it to heart. Be well.
Wear that swimsuit, and damn the Universe! The world is yours!! You’re amazing! And know that people like me are reading your book and loooooooving it!
Thank you for all those words. I’m so glad to know you are loving the book.
Billie, I can so relate to your swimsuit dilemma! But don’t pass up swimming with the manatees. You wear a full body wet suit, fins, mask and a flotation device.
I love your writing and humor and feel like you are reading my mind at times. I hope you have a great trip!
Thanks for the encouragement.
I hear ya, Bil. Us elder homos…same thing. My version from The Big Balloon:
IMAGINARY CITIES
My friend, Paul LeTarte, speaks five languages, likes to seat his cellphone (lit) under his pint of beer and admire the illumination. He has a degree in foreign affairs and city planning, is a considerate person and of late has a lot of hair. If he lets it loose, it hides his face. He also likes to somersault into a snow bank in his underwear as his brother films.
A few summers ago he asked me to go swimming (Turtle Pond, Roslindale) on a hot summer afternoon. I resisted. Pre-Melanoma, burning sun anxiety, reveal of hideous crêpey alabaster legs, ill-fitted in the bathing suit department and decrepitude of body in front of handsome boys were imaginings fast at work in my gonzo skull. Still, I like the smell of a lake under nostrils, like rain, the soft music of children laughing in the splash, the inverted bowl of blue sky, the anthropomorphic clouds. I had the time, so fuck it. I borrowed my roommate’s bathing suit – black, cool, hip-hop style so I don’t look weird in silly shorts. I slathered on the anticancer sauce and we drove out of the hood, windows breezing down, blues on the radio. We parked roadside, kicked off our shoes, hid phones, hippity hopped over gravel and grass like living dead marionettes and traipsed a sandy path to the dock where kids, young adults and happy dogs were goofy in the sun.
In seconds Paul’s in the water and swimming at a smooth crawl across the pond to the ‘party dock’— weed, booze, boom boxes blaring . I dove in, water curling around my body, filling my ears until, uh oh, not salt water! I forgot. I always forget. Fresh water is nowhere near as buoyant. My seventy-one year old sack of bones was heavy and awkward. Flailing, stabbing and squinting underwater as ten-year-old kids and an elderly woman seemed completely afloat and at ease. I did not swim far. I tried not to think about the snapping turtles the pond is named after, or what part of me they might snip and snap. I did yank up the shorts that fled past my waist and climbed onto the dock , no easy lift. No legit ladder, just planks nailed together at an uneven slant. The wood, slimed with algae, was laughing at me, at how foolish I looked slipping, sliding and jerking about like a total spaz.
I flopped onto the dock, exhausted and embarrassed, as small children leaped in and out of the brown water like penguins. I was awful at any of this, but loved it anyway, lying back on a tiny towel, trying to avoid late afternoon death rays when Paul returned, climbed up and stood dripping, smoothed out and breathing heavy from his swim, from the swim that erased his axe-in-head hangover. I tried not to look ‘there’, but of course I did, stealing a mental GoPro. He chatted it up with a burly ex-punk rock Dad who was there with his son. Dad dude offered me his truck-wheel sized inner tube. I declined, but when Paul arched back into the drink for swim-across #2, I took Dad up on the Dad tube, hurling it like a dyke with a discus and galumphed back into the water, limb heavy and floundering.
The tube, which seemed manageable for others, was next to impossible to navigate. I lurched my elbows up on either squeaky side, head in hole, but couldn’t lift my legs into that oh-so-relaxed float-about-the-pond position, ass underwater, chest to sky. I squirmed and shifted and struggled like a maniac until I forced my knees up under my chin and was able to yoga through the rubber ring. Woo hoo! Proud and panting, a cheerful Jeremy Irons in a tube, paddle, paddle, spin and splash. I noticed that I was drifting towards the lily pads where the snappers lurked. Enough already, as I frantically inched away from the turtle bite real estate. I worried about a dog-paddling Irish Setter’s stabbing toenails digging into my side as I hurled the shiny black rubber onto the dock and clambered out, wiped out. I feigned calm, but was grateful to be out of the water and to lie the fuck down. A swimmer I am not. Went out for it as a sport in high school and puked in the shower after five laps. I wasn’t fond of here-it-is-have-a-look-ya-can’t-miss-it speedos. At any rate, I doubt I’ll be going back. I will stay home with a mint julip, sexy sun glasses and a candy cane parasol.
Paul’s brother grows intense weed. Two hits and you can’t move. Paul seized an opportunity. He places a 4’x8’ swath of butcherblock paper on the floor, smokes a fatty and then, with ink and pencil and on hands and knees, begins to draw. The THC focuses his pen. He’s at it for hours at a stretch, creating a bird’s eye view of a fictional middle eastern city. Narrow streets, ribbon rivers, small open spaces, tiny houses. The brain eraser oblivion of making art.
I want art work from my friends. I want their stuff on my walls. I don’t have the bread to pay for it, so I charm it out of them, one guilt tripping manipulative drop at a time. I have a collection of at least eight to ten of these. Some from the accomplished. Some from the less so. For me it’s personal. Having art made by friends keeps them with me as I might not see them ongoingly. Preferable to a photo of a face which never seems to fully restore their being into a forgetful heart.
Every time I ran into Paul, I’d ask for a ‘city’. It took a while. He’s usually high and a mañana procrastinate, but one night, at the Behan, he brought it. A section the size of a high school lunch tray. No room for the big honcho in my house. I adore it, especially the frenzied scratchy ballpoint blue lines indicating water in the lower right.
NON SEQUITUR
He told me that his roommate, Peruvian, masturbates at least seven times a day. That’s gotta chafe. Why does he tell me this?
Why does he tell you this? Why do you tell me this?
Thank you for swimsuit piece. I felt everything you mentioned. If I were a writer, that’s exactly what I would say. It’s so empowering to know I’m not alone.
Much love 🩷
You are not alone!
So so good… thank you for sharing such vulnerable stuff with courage and humor!
I’m waiting for your bathing suit selfie! 🫶🙌🫣
Hmm, I might be wearing a hooded sweatshirt and knee socks in my swimsuit selfie. Also, maybe a face mask and a skort…