The bikini
Wearing a bikini is on my bucket list,” one of the golden girls tells me. “Really? “You never wore a bikini?” I asked incredulously. “It was different during our time,” another golden girl tells me. “No one wore bikinis and if you did, they’d give you the dirty looks and think you’re a scarlet woman.”
“Hmm, that’s true,” I reply, “though that didn’t stop me.” I smile.
“I wish I had done it,” the second golden girl tells me. “That’s why I let my daughters wear whatever they want to wear because I don’t want them to be like me someday—saying things like I should have done it.”
When I try to relive the events since January, I am left, still, with this sense of disbelief. Did it actually happen? If not for the piece of evidence in my flank, I would have thought I completely imagined it all.
I sometimes wake up with scratches and bumps in my body. I can never recall having been bitten by some flying or crawling insect in the night so I always tell my sisters that I might have been abducted by aliens the night before. Was it aliens on Monday, the 13th? I see it every day—the surgical scar that now makes me smile. “It’s not bad,” my sister tells me, “in fact, it looks great. You can still wear a bikini.” “Look,” my other sister holds up her shirt, my stomach even looks worse than yours with all my stretch marks, “I can’t wear a bikini anymore.”
My mother’s nurse offers me some advice, “Maam, you should put some cream on the scar so it will fade. Then, you can still wear a bikini.” This fixation over the bikini makes me smile. In my time, bikinis were regarded as sinful garb worn by girls who didn’t know any better. But do you think that stopped me? Can you imagine my parents’ agony? (They’re still in agony now.) And so, I wore my bikini—with aplomb and audacity, seeking no approval, giving no apology.
You cannot live without regret if you cannot find the courage to live the life you want.
The surgical scar doesn’t bother me. I think it gives my body, character. Why would I want it to fade and disappear? It’s a badge of courage, not to mention a really good conversation piece. At any rate, with or without it, my clothing choices would be the same.
My bikini days are over. So over. Actually, two decades over. In fact, I’m supremely thankful to the Aussies for inventing the rash guard. I have long come to terms with the reality that my body must now retire from making public appearances.
“No more comebacks?” a friend asks. “Nope” I reply. “But then, who knows? I’ve been known to eat my words. Never say never, right?” We both laugh. “Nah,” I change my mind, “only select private appearances now.”
“You know something?” I tell my fellow golden girl. “Why don’t we organize a private pool party and tick that one item off your bucket list?”
Life is short. Wear the bikini. Now.