Once More, to the Beach
©Christine Olinger for Ladybug Flights-Body Image

I was browsing around the internet recently looking for information on bathing suits. I'm not sure why, other than May being a popular month for the spandex torture chamber in catalogues and stores. I found some interesting information at a site called gurl.com. An online poll revealed the following:

14% said 1 piece
49% said bikini
25% said tankini
6% said shorts
6% said something else

Now, as other people participate in the poll the numbers may shift. According to most of the data I've tracked down from legitimate sources, the average American woman is a size 14, and far more women wear a larger size than 14 than wear a smaller size. One third of American women wear a size 16 or larger. I know what you're thinking. Women who wear size 14 and up should probably not be participating in the 49% of those in bikinis.

While I would argue that women in all shapes should be proud to display what they have in any way they chose, I also know that anyone in the plus size range would be hard pressed to find a bikini that would be comfortable. They are out there, by the way. I've seen them in catalogues and when they are properly proportioned they're not at all ugly. If, in fact, you find the full figured form attractive they are quite lovely.

Still, the examples I have seen in person-- right outside my front door, ambling toward Green Harbor Beach-- were not well tailored. It has always, in fact, astonished me how really, really horrifying most people look in a bathing suit. Even more astonishing to someone with as many self esteem issues as myself is how blatantly unabashed the general public seems to be about varicose veins, cellulite, backne, full body fur, and any number of other revealing-- err-- personal details.

Summer comes every year. With it the beautiful people flock to the sands by the shore to worship the sun and play among the waves. Right. That's the Baywatch version.

People, take it from me... I live here... about 15% of the population is young, tan, and beautiful. The rest of us are butt ugly, and the less we have covering us the worse it gets. Most of the beautiful people have the good sense to wear what flatters them. Yes, twenty-something young girls with no body fat look great in little bikinis. We don't have a high butt floss population in New England. Old puritan values and all that. And yes, there are bronzed lads with washboard abs playing volleyball down there. They wear those nicely baggy swim trunks with the string dangling down the front or just an old pair of shorts. They look great.

And then there are the others:

We'll call her Edna. She's 75 if she's a day. Brown as a grocery bag, far more wrinkled, and-- weirdly-- bearing an eerily similar scent. She wears a size 20, and has for about 30 years. She's just over 5 feet tall. Her legs look like road maps. Her waist has been missing longer than Jimmy Hoffa. She's wearing a one piece bathing suit in aqua, cobalt, and black that has a skirt stretched so tight across her hips that it really serves as little more than an external girdle. We'll call him Earl. He's 75 and looks it. He may have a tan. The profusion of hair that covers his body from the top of his balding head to the knuckles on his crooked toes is so dense that it's hard to tell. The hair is grey, except for the hair on his head, which has been dyed a curious tawny shade with Grecian Formula. His breasts are bigger than hers. He is wearing a black speedo, a gold rope chain from which an anchor dangles, and a pair of matching black flip flops.

You're laughing. But I'll tell you a secret about these two. They walk to the beach every sunny morning from Memorial Day to Labor Day. They lay in the sun for a few hours, swim several laps, lay around a while longer, swim some more laps, and walk home. They both stopped smoking, eat fewer carbs these days, and have lowered their cholesterol. Both retired, not that long ago, after working very hard for a very long time.

So I'm conflicted. I will be 39 next month. I'm looking forward to being 40, only because I'm sick of being in my 30s. It feels like they've lasted 25 years. I'm fat, and my body is worse than either of theirs if the truth be told. Culture has conditioned me to laugh, sneer, or turn away from the varicose-embellished and back-hair-bedecked. But who the hell am I to do so? And the truth-seeker in me, the champion of downtrodden souls, wants to applaud. Good for them! They've earned those spider veins, gray hairs, and scars. Why shouldn't they wear whatever bathing attire makes them comfortable and happy?

As for the golden ones, those young, frolicking kids in their tiny, spandex swatches and casually baggy shorts held up by firm butts that are actually wider than their waists, I have a theory about them. First of all, they drove to the beach in SUVs and convertibles. Second, they're drinking beer and wine coolers and eating junk food. So when Chip and Britni with an I, not a Y, get caught in the rip tide and find themselves clinging to a teetering buoy in the harbor, it will be Edna and Earl who swim out to drag them in before they drown.

Maybe not. Maybe age and rising temperatures have made me cranky. Perhaps my writer's imagination has run away with me. But I'll tell you what: if 49% of us really are wearing bikinis; and if a similarly significant number of males are donning little lycra numbers this summer, I say bully for them no matter what body they are pouring into those suits. I won't be joining them, but I'll be on my lawn in a pair of old black cutoffs and a tank top toasting them with the low fat smoothie as I wash down my Lipitor. Once more onto the beach, dear friends, and let us fill up the dunes with our flabby, fat thighs!