Bathing suit, I hate you.
I mean, my hate for you is quasi-terminal. You’re cute and flowered and have a ruffle – and, somehow, you’re a size 16 (a far cry from you of yesteryear who was a 26/28) – but I still want to take a pair of scissors to you.
Tonight, you reminded me yet again of my daily-veiled physical imperfections. Some of my closest friends and their own children gave you compliments when I finally emerged from near-hiding; I quickly told them I was miserable and that I looked like a Golden Girl. We were going into their private hot tub, and I almost needed a valium to get through it. “It” meaning the thought of being in a contained space, with people I love… and actual flesh showing.
I am decidedly confident – when I’m not wearing you. You make me a walking contradiction – 1 part takeover the world, 1 part wilted flower.
The fact that you reveal by your very wicked limited-fabric nature the things I can hide under clothing (generally)… fueled my comedic albeit self-deprecating humor. I attempted to dash with you and your ruffle into the hot tub in milliseconds.
I had to talk myself off the ledge and only felt somewhat ok once submerged. The reggae music and neon lights blaring from this particular hot tub may have also helped.
In any of your siblings (jeans, t shirts, shirts, ponchos, dresses, whatever), I feel just fine. In fact, I think I can look pretty amazing at times. But not in you. You show exactly what continues to haunt me – the fat of the former person I was and the companion skin that now taunts me because there is no possible way to tame, shrink or make it disappear with mere exercise. I’ve talked about the skin issue before, yet you continue to antagonize me with it every time you’re around.
You know I love the beach, and I love to swim. Why must you torture me?
I understand people thinking “[I] look fine”, “it’s not that big a deal”, “it’s just skin”, or “it’s not that bad”. They are a) being incredibly nice and b) woefully unaware of what it means to have (I’m estimating) 30 lbs of pure skin (if not more) hanging from their generally normal bodies.
I accepted my non-normalcy eons ago.
Still, it would be nice to throw you on and not want to take an electric turkey carving knife to my arms and thighs. I’d rather wear you with a group of strangers who I’ll never see again (i.e. at the YMCA, while I’m doing laps and gleefully kicking around like a 5’9 human-dolphin hybrid) than with my closest friends. Presented with that option tonight, your cute flowers and ruffle meant nothing. You were the enemy. You force(d) me to reveal a tormented layer of me I can typically hide, even from them.
They didn’t care.
And I will [care] until you can be worn by me without the same anger welling up from some deep, dark monster-abyss. I’ll get there, spiteful bathing suit. You will not defeat me.