Letting It All Hang Out

Before investing the reflection necessary to write a blog centered around embarrassing epiphanies, I had no idea what a leading role swimsuits had played in my emotional growth.  Everyone who's ever spent 5 minutes with me has heard the most infamous of my swimsuit stories (which I will never write; it will only be passed on through oral tradition), but there are so many more.  

I have no lingering insecurity about my swimsuit body.  It's been the same my whole life: undeveloped. Mostly I just look like a younger brother who's gotten a hold of his sister's bikini top and has put it on to make a show in front of friends and relatives at a barbecue.  I don't mind this fact, other than the expense of shelling out big bucks for a top I don't need.  My swimsuit body - or lack thereof -  has given me a treasure trove of story material.  

Here's one now:
It must have been beginning of summer my 8th grade year.  Middle Pool was one of the designated places to congregate in our Iowa town.  (Pool during the day, Happy Joe's at night.) The right bathing suit was a must.  

Lisa Bregman and I went to Marshalls together and, wouldn't you know, I struck gold.  The suit was lightweight lycra, and I felt slippery like a fish in it.  It was a one-piece, light kelly green and white striped with white piping and a racing back. As you know from a previous post, puberty hadn't awarded me with a single shape to put into a suit, but I could at least look like a bonafide swimmer, and boy (excuse the pun), did I. It was fantastic.  Best part; it had been on sale for the ridiculously low price of $12.  

What's not to love about that?
(Reader alert: Be careful what you don't pay for.)

Not long after purchase, my swimsuit's debut arrived.  When Lisa and I got to Middle Pool, it was PACKED.   Everyone was there, including Wally Cale and all of his friends.  Let me pause here for a moment and explain that Wally Cale was the bad boy du jour.  Even though he had eyes, a mouth and hands for Lisa, he made other girls (read: me) swoon.  How I wished for a bad boy of my own!  I knew he had friends.  Maybe one of them would like me.  Maybe I'd attract a bad boy too and enjoy the racy excitement of something forbidden.  

Me. Maybe.

Lisa and I paid admission to swim, but Wally and his crew posed at the fence, fingers laces through the chain-link diamonds, peering in. Lisa was already "in" with Wally's group, but I was eager to make an impression.  I figured what I lacked in swimsuit filler, I made up for in athleticism. Wouldn't a bad boy appreciate an agile, athletic bad-*ss female?  Both are bad, right?  

Besides, I had a secret weapon. Over my years on swim and diving teams, I had perfected my exit from a pool.  No stairs or ladder for me, no. Two hands on the concrete side, a fast hoist up, a moment to let the water rain down on the pavement, a quick right foot plant, a graceful swoop left leg behind me, and a final, mesmerizing shake of wet hair.  It was Bo Derek meets Bo Jackson.  I was ready to impress!

And wouldn't you know, Lisa and I were in the pool and Wally called to me from the fence.  He was calling me.  I was invited.  I was chosen.  I performed my perfected pool exit and sauntered over to the chain-link boys.  The boys grinned shyly and bumbled for words. Their eyes wouldn't meet mine.  They stammered for something to say, and I felt powerful. Oh, the power of being so attractive as to render males speechless!  I had achieved my greatest goal!  I felt amazing. I smirked coyly and walked back to dive triumphantly into the pool.  Winning!

Wally kept calling to me.  Come to the fence again.  They wanted to talk.  I thought, yeah, I'll bet you do.  You got a taste of this hot stuff and now you can't get enough.  I'd never understood the power that women hold, and yet, there I was, basking in the power of sexuality, the power of my attraction.

They pleaded until I felt ignoring their request bordered on cruel.  All right, all right!  I hoisted myself out of the pool again, flipped my foot in back of me, shook my hair out and strutted over. 

Something shifted.  
This time, I heard a snicker.  This time, I watched the eyes... move downward... down the front of my body... seeing something...

I stood at the fence, fingers interlaced through the fence, and looked down.

My suit was see-through. Saran wrap would have offered more coverage than that stupid, cheap kelly green and white piece of lycra.  Until that moment, I didn't consider my body anything to look at, but then and there, there was plenty to see.  

I locked eyes with Wally's and his said, "I'm sorry, but can you really blame me?"  I felt the weight of shame as fully my own.  It felt like it was all my fault.  I did it to myself.  I let myself believe that boys would accept - yes, even like -  my tongue depressor body and my great personality.  I let myself believe that somehow that would be a catch for some teenage bad boy.  

I scampered back to the pool like a startled squirrel and dove into the water. I stayed under as long as possible in order to calm down and to cover my mortification. When I broke through the water, I faced away from them and shook out my hair the way I'd seen in the movies,  My front couldn't be sexy, but I'd work with what I had.

And that has been the story I've lived by.  Work with what you've got.