Thursday, June 08, 2006
Beach Blanket Bikini Babylon Blech
Never in my life, have I identified with Cathy - the comic book heroine that is all things men hate about women, and epitomizes the weight-obsessed, shopping-obsessed, needy-obsessed woman. Until today. The all-inclusive horror-fest that is 'buying a bikini.'
I got invited to 'go to the beach' with a bunch of women on Sunday, and although I've been to the beach a thousand times...'going to the beach' is different. I assume there will be beach-towels (don't have), tanning lotion (I am white, and will always be white), Cosmopolitan magazines (who can read about sex when it's hot?), and bikinis (yikes!). Maybe some water toe-touching, but I doubt it.
I was born and raised on the beach. I grew up with sand on the front doorstep, and sea-water in my veins. I can body surf, sail, and can fight an undertow. I normally splash around, swim, and usually do so in a skirt and t-shirt or actual clothes, before putting on a sweater and going for dinner wet. This is why beach bars were invented. Wet clothes and wine mix very well.
However, I don't have a swimsuit. I'm more than happy to pass my submerged ocean time in a tank-top and shorts, or if desperate, a male friend-loaned wife-beater and swim trunks. I also don't see any reason why my underwear should not work. It's supportive, eye catching, and matches. It also took years of shopping to locate the elusive bra and underwear set that is comfortable, flattering, and male-pleasing, not an easy feat, mind you. It also has really cute pink bows on it. I don't mind sharing that spectacular underwear with the world, or the Pacific Ocean, or chlorinated pools in Tarzana.
But shopping for a swimsuit in one day, is something that turns me into that insane woman Cathy, who can never find anything, and never looks good when she draws back the comic strip dressing-room curtain. Plus, you know how the comic price tag always shows 3 dollar signs with an exclamation point? $$$! is not something I will pay for a bikini. A Chanel bikini, yes...but that's for my trophy wife days to come.
And who are these twiggy-esque girls who have no chest, and no hips? In my day those were called 'boys'. Look at me, saying 'In my day'..I am officially old. Finding something that didn't push my self-declared perfect chest out beyond my center of gravity or smushed back into my lung cavity...and that wouldn't fall off at the slightest play-slap of a wave...was impossible. Spritzing these suits with a orchid-mister would make the strings untie, and as much as I relish the opportunity to be naked in front of a hundred people...I don't.
So...the women of Malibu will have to be accepting of my surfer tank and skirt, flip-flop pukka shell beach blond outfit. It's the official beach outfit, and I can attest, having been born on a beach. These bikini-wearing fools are clearly tourists. Think of me as the blond Annette Funicello of California. Although, she wore a bikini...but she was born in Utica - New York, so that's her excuse. I'm looking forward to hanging with Frankie Avalon. He's dreamy.
I still had to buy a beach towel. But that's another story, for another day.