On Accidental Acts of Bravery
©Christine Olinger first appearing in Ladybug Flights, August 2003

I live on the ocean. Recently I have taken to a new habit, one I've been cultivating actively. I take my laptop, a small lap-tray, and a pillow, and flop down on a convenient patch of sand for two to three hours: from around 6:00 pm to 8:00 or thereabouts. I force myself to write. It's brought about a renewed interest in the nuts and bolts of my craft. Some of what ends up on the page is simple journaling or nonsense. But it's good for me and there is something magic about skimming over the keyboard, not even glancing at the monitor, gazing at the gulls or a passing sail. Not unsurprisingly I often get comments from passing beach-goers. Surprisingly, I got one that involved body image this past week.

“You know I think you are very brave,” she whispered. She had soccer-mom written all over her. Beige hair, beige skin, beige shorts, faded-blue tank top, beige flip-flop sandals and a straw hat. Guess what color it was?

Completely bewildered at the idea that I was somehow being brave without even trying I decided to ask how I was managing the task. If there was something large and scary lurking behind me I might want to know. So I asked.

“Well, you know, a person your size being on the beach and everything, and you walked all the way down here. It's very brave. If you need help getting back up the beach you just let us know.”

Huh? I stared in utter incomprehension at both Ms. Beige and her companion, who had the good grace to blush furiously. After a moment it dawned on me that I was being applauded not just for appearing on a beach, but for managing to walk on it by myself.

Not really knowing what else to do I thanked Ms. Beige and stared at the monitor in front of me, upon which I'd been typing an email to an old college friend. Bill, if you're out there, I'll send it later. This was too good to pass up.

It's fascinating. I was wearing a pair of jeans, a plain yellow t-shirt, and was barefoot. I was seated in about as luxurious a comfort as has ever been known to man: back propped against the seawall, butt molded into a me-sized plot of sand, toes toying playfully with the wet sand that hides under the dry sand, pillow behind me just for extra cushiness, laptop securely stabilized on the little fold out tea-tray that straddled my lap. Prior to the arrival of the Beige One I had labored in merry joy, tippity tapping my keyboard while the salt wind combed my hair. I even had a nice, cold lemonade nestled beside me in nature's best cup-holder (more sand).

Yet I was brave. Who knew? My presence itself-- my fatness glistening in the last rays of a brilliant sun like a shining beacon of bacon-- was an inspiration to skinny soccer moms struggling for a slim glimpse of meaning in their lives of taupe-drab emptiness. Me, a humble chubbo, toiling in obscurity on my beach: I was a hero.

Well hell! I thought I was a Libertarian!

The thing that astonishes me most about this little anecdote is not that a High Beige yuppie woman would be so clueless. That's becoming more of a given every day in my experience. What blows me away is that she was creative enough to concoct a reality in which I needed to struggle in order to walk down a beach, overcome shame in order to sit on it, and yet was not intelligent enough to realize how ridiculous the assumptions were. What surprised me was that, of all the people to stop and remark about me being on the beach that day, she was the only one who thought me brave to be there.

Just for the record, Beige lady (I know you're out there, and the probability of your name being something that ends in a Y or an I is astronomical), I have been walking those dunes for 38 years. My calves are like marble. I don't struggle when I stroll along the sand. As for my public display of fatness, well... the only person who seemed to notice anything remarkable about it was you. Now, granted, I'm sure people walked by and thought “she's rather large.” But I've been in this body a long time, too, and my experience is that few people are really all that hung up about it. I mean, more Americans are fat than are thin. There were a lot of fat people on that beach. Some of them were wearing bathing suits. I suppose, by your reckoning, they were also brave. Somebody is going to have to call the mint and tell them to stamp out a whole slew of medals.

I've been back to the beach since meeting Ms. Beige. She hasn't resurfaced yet. Nobody else has remarked upon my bravery. I can't decide whether or not to be put out about that. A lot of people do stop and speak to me. Usually they say things like “wow, what a great idea; I might finish that project on the beach!” One guy said to me “I don't know what you do for a living, lady, but I love your office!” That made me smile. I thanked him for coming by and told him I'd just had it redecorated, which was true: the tide had just gone out.

Someday I hope I live in a world where no person is presumed to be ashamed of themselves or physically crippled by a full figure. The good news is people like the Beige lady seem to be fewer, at least on my beach, than people who just think taking your work to the beach is a great idea. In the mean time I have a great deal for which to be thankful. I have my sand, my sky, my sea. I have my inspiration and a blank page before me. I have two sturdy legs to carry me, two eyes to watch the colors blaze and blend into dusk, two feet buried in cool, damp sand beneath the warm, dry sand, and fingers flying over the keys.

And yes, I have idiots like Lady Beige and the L.L. Bean Posse to write about. God bless them, every one!