Beach Time!

Once again, Tuesday has rolled around---surprise, surprise, surprise---hence it is {insert righteous, soul blasting, trumpet music here} Demystifying Divas Day. Our topic for today: what is appropriate beachwear?

Now, if you were to ask this question of the husband (which I did: he's my polling sample) he would tell you a. every beach should be topless (And yes, just to confirm any leaps of the imagination you might have made with that little bit of disclosure, yes, the French Riviera is one of his dream vacation destinations.) and b. just say no to the "grape smuggler"-type swimsuits, aka speedos. You see, in his mind, a woman's body is a beautiful thing. He's not going to mind one bit if a woman has a few extra pounds on her---as long as she's topless. Naked breasts distract from any imperfections apparently. For a man's body, well, according to the husband, said man shouldn't wear one of those itty bitty speedos unless he's got the body to pull it off, and even then it's a flip of the coin as to whether the man really should be wearing the thing. What I find ironic is that if he ever were to make to the French Riviera, he'd find a lot of speedos mixed in with all of the topless women, because I believe that's one of the places in Europe where hygiene requirements dictate that men have to wear such a swimsuit.

As for what I think, well, I think as long as you're comfortable in your swimsuit and it doesn't keep riding up your butt (hence forcing you to keep digging for gold...in PUBLIC), you can wear what you'd like. Even if it's a Speedo. Because, really, there are some men who can get away with wearing speedos. (Michael Phelps comes to mind. Hottie McHotHot! Rowr.) It's all about being comfortable with your body: if you're comfortable with your body, well, that feeling of confidence that you give off has a way of hiding cellulite and stretch marks. It's a magic little thing.

A couple of years ago, back when we could afford such a thing, the husband and I were members of what would be thrown into the city club designation for places where you spend an obscene amount of money playing the meet and greet game. It was the same deal as a country club, only without the golf course. There was a health club instead. It was a pretty swank club and we enjoyed our membership there not only because was it the best people watching opportunity in town, but also because there was a rooftop pool replete with BAR SERVICE! There's really nothing quite so nice on a hot summer afternoon than having a very cute, very nice, young waiter deliver you a refreshing, cold glass of Chardonnay as you read the latest edition of The Economist whilst sunning yourself poolside. That's living, let me tell you.

Ahem.

Anyway when I first went to the pool, of course, I was a wee bit nervous about how I looked in my swimsuit. Now, I'm not a bikini girl. I haven't owned one since I was about five-years-old (It was green with cute little fishies on it) because I thought (and still think) they were too revealing for me, so I've pretty much been a maillot girl ever since. If you don't know what these are, well, know that it's got a low-ish back on it, it covers my rear-end, and it shows what I would consider to be a reasonable amount of cleavage. Nothing too fancy, in other words. It's also functional and as such it makes me feel comfortable. But this was the club--- with rich bitches who spend every waking moment on the elipticals in the health club. I was nervous that I was going to be the only one with cellulite poking out. The husband told me I looked fine and then shoved me out the door.

As it turns out, the husband was (once again) right. I needn't have worried. It became quite obvious that the world, and the people in it, really aren't airbrushed. (It'd been a while since I'd gone to a pool. My expectations for embarrassment were high.) There were women there, well over the age of forty, standing around, chatting with friends, who were dressed in skimpy bikinis and they looked fabulous---despite the fact you could divine how many kids they'd had just by counting the stretch marks on their tummies. They didn't care. Neither did they care if there were a few dimples on their thighs and butts. They just didn't give a rat's ass. Why? Because they were comfortable with their bodies.

These women were a sharp contrast to the young woman who always sat devotedly next to her asshole boyfriend at the edge of the pool. (He stole my waiter once by waving a fifty dollar bill in midair, at a club where everything was done by tab, hence he was forever shut into the asshole category as a result.) Now the boyfriend was the type who thought it necessary to wear his diamond-encrusted Texas Timex to the pool (along with a few guido chains around his neck) and was more interested in showing off how much money he had than actually having a good time. Well, let me amend that: showing off how much money he had was his idea of a good time. His girlfriend, who I'm very sure was not used to going to clubs of this nature, was an interesting people-watching specimen. I will admit, she fascinated me because she was, well---how do I put this?---incongrous? Yeah, that works. Her attitude didn't match what she looked like. That's why I found her interesting to observe.

She was tall, thin, and was a bottle blonde. Every time she took a swim, she never dipped her head under the water, because it would wreck the full war paint she had going on, to say nothing of her perfectly arranged hair. Now, this woman had what a lot of men would consider to be the perfect, early 21st Century body. And by that I mean she could have body-doubled for J.Lo. I would swear on a mile-high stack that she'd had gone for the ass implants. Her butt was completely, perfectly, round, like you'd cut a softball in half and had slid each half under either cheek. These implants, of course, matched the ones on her chest, which were just right. Not too large, but not too small, either. Her stomach was flat, her thighs were slim, her toes were professionally tended to, as were her hands. She had the perfect body that only the best plastic surgeons could provide and yet, surprisingly enough, after all that, she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her boyfriend apparently thought all of his money needed to be displayed appropriately, hence she was always in a bikini. She was perfectly tanned and was quite pretty naturally. But she wasn't comfortable with herself. Her arms were always crossed over her chest. She wore a towel around her waist as much as she possibly could. She always looked as if she was trying to hide, always looking down and trying to be invisible, so that the teacher wouldn't call on her. The older, bikini wearing women, who were busy chatting with their friends while they tried to keep their kids from kamikazi-ing off the side of the pool and killing themselves in the process, intimidated this girl. And it was there to see by anyone who'd bothered to look.

Hence, this is why I say, wear what you want to the pool or the beach: if you're comfortable in it, who cares what anyone else has to say about it? You could have the best body money could buy and still not be comfortable with it. So, why bother worrying (and spending thousands of dollars fixing it) about it? You'll save time and money that way. And, as the husband always claims, confidence is the sexiest thing a woman can wear. Don't worry so much about how it fits.

Now, run along and see what the other fabulous demystifying divas have to say on the subject. Also, please go over and say "hi" to Divaesque Lady Kate, who is also contributing to our vast knowledge on this subject this week. Also, make sure to check out what the boys have to say on the topic. The Wiz is taking a bye week, so he won't have anything to say, but make sure to read what Phin, Stiggy and The Foreign Minister have contributed.

Posted by Kathy at June 14, 2005 12:07 PM