Between a Bikini and a Dead Place
Can you be over fifty years old and wear a bikini? You bet your low-rise bottom from Victoria's Secret you can.
Ah, but should you? Let's be honest.
Those catalog models look great in bikinis, all air-brushed and spray tanned mocha.
The day I grow seven more inches, lose 30 pounds and perfect a pout that says "I'm so hungry I could eat one entire string bean", I will wear a bikini.
I live in a place that enjoys summer weather a few precious weeks a year.
We call it New England.
Known for our frugality and hardiness, some cheap (as in, bargain shoppers) and tough over-50 women like to enjoy a cocktail by the Atlantic with friends to discuss hormone replacement therapy, Pinterest posts and new grandchildren.
Some take this period of life to sport their body goods with aplomb and defend their decision to do so "because I can, that's why, asshole".
Oh, and we're known for our coastal charm and fresh seafood, too.
I say, you go girlfriend.
Rounding the fifty year mark entitles us to the "I don't give a crap what you think" attitude.
Hear that girls? It's the collective laughs of mature women everywhere who once wore your bra size.
Oh those were the days, huh?Our reality is that people we know and love are dropping like flies.
We sense our time is running out.
The window of opportunity to wear the latest and greatest (and tiniest) strips of fabric which allows us to burn the most skin surface is closing fast.
So if not now, when?At sixty?Seventy?God, at eighty? Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, about thirty-five years and three kids ago, I had a slim, hard body.
In my mind, and if I squint really, really hard without my trifocals, I turn sideways and see that skinny chick in there dying to strut up and down the beach just one more time.
What keeps me from acting on this impulse?Fear.
It starts in the dressing room.
If you have the nerve to pull a few bikinis off the rack and grab a number from the dressing room clerk and not lie that these are for your daughter, you have my attention and admiration.
Or if you are fearful to take your flabby thighs to shop in public, like me, we could have been separated at birth.
Instead you flip through a catalog or website and order a few pretty Band-Aid sized bikinis to try on in the comfort of your home.
When the postmenopausal blubber could not be tucked into the hipster bottom, I was what? Shocked? Appalled? Infuriated?I recently sent such a purchase back and checked off "too big" on the return slip.
Pathetic, I know.
For now I'll pull on a one-piece bathing suit made of Spanx-like material, in basic black, with support cups and extra wide straps.
Sure the underarm and derriere extras will bulge out, but this winter I vow to shed the extra pounds, exercise like a beast and get ready for next summer.
With any luck I've still got my 60s, 70s and 80s to pull it off.
However, in case I don't make it, I've left instructions for when I die.
Please bury me in the cute floral push-up halter top and side-tie bikini that I just could not return.
It's in my bottom drawer behind the sweatpants.
Don't forget the spray tan.
I want to look good.
Stephanie Dell is a humorist in her own mind who writes an unfair and unbalanced blog on social living experiences and believes a dog and a beer are essential ingredients for a happier life.
Ah, but should you? Let's be honest.
Those catalog models look great in bikinis, all air-brushed and spray tanned mocha.
The day I grow seven more inches, lose 30 pounds and perfect a pout that says "I'm so hungry I could eat one entire string bean", I will wear a bikini.
I live in a place that enjoys summer weather a few precious weeks a year.
We call it New England.
Known for our frugality and hardiness, some cheap (as in, bargain shoppers) and tough over-50 women like to enjoy a cocktail by the Atlantic with friends to discuss hormone replacement therapy, Pinterest posts and new grandchildren.
Some take this period of life to sport their body goods with aplomb and defend their decision to do so "because I can, that's why, asshole".
Oh, and we're known for our coastal charm and fresh seafood, too.
I say, you go girlfriend.
Rounding the fifty year mark entitles us to the "I don't give a crap what you think" attitude.
It's a great time of life to let those unregulated hormones speak their minds and show off wannabe abs.At this age we are more in touch with our mortality than some judgmental wet-behind-the-belly-ring twenty year old nymph who thinks the drinking and partying will last forever without consequences.
Hear that girls? It's the collective laughs of mature women everywhere who once wore your bra size.
Oh those were the days, huh?Our reality is that people we know and love are dropping like flies.
We sense our time is running out.
The window of opportunity to wear the latest and greatest (and tiniest) strips of fabric which allows us to burn the most skin surface is closing fast.
So if not now, when?At sixty?Seventy?God, at eighty? Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, about thirty-five years and three kids ago, I had a slim, hard body.
In my mind, and if I squint really, really hard without my trifocals, I turn sideways and see that skinny chick in there dying to strut up and down the beach just one more time.
What keeps me from acting on this impulse?Fear.
It starts in the dressing room.
If you have the nerve to pull a few bikinis off the rack and grab a number from the dressing room clerk and not lie that these are for your daughter, you have my attention and admiration.
Or if you are fearful to take your flabby thighs to shop in public, like me, we could have been separated at birth.
Instead you flip through a catalog or website and order a few pretty Band-Aid sized bikinis to try on in the comfort of your home.
When the postmenopausal blubber could not be tucked into the hipster bottom, I was what? Shocked? Appalled? Infuriated?I recently sent such a purchase back and checked off "too big" on the return slip.
Pathetic, I know.
For now I'll pull on a one-piece bathing suit made of Spanx-like material, in basic black, with support cups and extra wide straps.
Sure the underarm and derriere extras will bulge out, but this winter I vow to shed the extra pounds, exercise like a beast and get ready for next summer.
With any luck I've still got my 60s, 70s and 80s to pull it off.
However, in case I don't make it, I've left instructions for when I die.
Please bury me in the cute floral push-up halter top and side-tie bikini that I just could not return.
It's in my bottom drawer behind the sweatpants.
Don't forget the spray tan.
I want to look good.
Stephanie Dell is a humorist in her own mind who writes an unfair and unbalanced blog on social living experiences and believes a dog and a beer are essential ingredients for a happier life.
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