If the swimsuit fits, wear it
You reach a certain age when it is a relief not to have to pose by a pool. Well, you could pose but it would make no impact as you’d be invisible, which is a most agreeable state of affairs. Pools are for people who are fond of their physiques and have invested heavily in swimwear, the irony being that the smaller the cossie, the more expensive. Fitness and beauty are not measured by the metre.
I have recently been at a lovely resort for a few days with my (usually) stay-at-home husband and it occurred to us, possibly simultaneously, that our swimwear is horribly daggy and, quite possibly, smells of mothballs. I felt like saying that I couldn’t be seen in my sensible navy one-piece with the dodgy elastic but then I realised I wouldn’t be seen anyway. I would be about as riveting to passers-by as a palm tree or an umbrella. No one would even stop and ask me to take their photographs as they would be equipped with selfie sticks. And so they were, stalking about like wading birds in high-heeled beach shoes (yes, a thing, apparently) and waving said sticks and those mad GoPro devices like butterfly nets.
Suddenly it was all very liberating to be unseen, so much more relaxing than when I was younger and in peril of having poolside spasms as I held in my alwaystubby tummy so tightly that I couldn’t breathe.
Then there was a period when I tried those miraculous swimsuits with industrial superstructures that keep every bit of you firmly in place until the material gets wet and you realise you can’t take off the cossie until it’s com- pletely dry. It’s all very well looking like an hourglass but only if you can suppress the need to wee for many hours at a time. Surely there is a law of physics that elastic acting upon the body causes a ripple effect. All that suppressed flesh has to go somewhere, and hopefully not up your decolletage and under your chin.
Back at the resort pool, with no audience, we splashed like children and swam day and night and attracted not even one curious gaze. I noticed a man swimming in a caftan, which seemed remarkable, but he shook himself off and dried confidently in the sun like a splendid potentate. Another chap was wearing his underpants but that was OK, too, and who hasn’t left their cossie at home and longed to be bold enough to swim in their smalls?
On the way back to Sydney, there was a woman at the airport in a set of Qantas in-flight pyjamas and not just the flying kangaroo-logo top (because, frankly, what frequent flyer hasn’t gone out in one of those to the corner shop) but the whole kit and caboodle. She kept hitching up the trousers, which were several sizes too large. Yikes, then she took off the top. I gasped. Even the temporarily out-and-about husband was interested now. Underneath she was wearing the daggiest of ill-fitting bikinis and she proceeded to apply roll-on deodorant and snap her bra straps.
I hope the upcoming summer holidays provide you with many remarkable sightings and that time feels magically elastic.