G-STRING BIKINIS
No thanks, I’m glute-intolerant
Some people go to the beach to roll around in the waves or to read on the sand. Me? I feel like I’ve spent the better part of this past year attending other women’s gynaecological examinations. It’s a fact rammed home by my most recent seaside outing, when a duo in dental floss bikinis set up before my young daughters and immediately began working themselves into a series of Gumby-esque yoga poses. “Oh for God’s sake, would it kill you to at least cover up the part between your cheeks?” I huffed under my breath as I hurriedly began packing up our stuff. “Girls, if you have to put sunscreen on your labia, then your swimsuit is too small,” I added in the direction of my giggling daughters – a parental truth no-one should have to deliver.
Hi, I’m Dilvin Yasa and as you might have guessed by my reaction to this visual intrusion, I’m officially old. You can’t really blame me for feeling the way I do about butts on the beach; at 43, I grew up in an era where swimsuits were carefully monitored for wedgies, and G-strings were only ever worn over shiny aerobics tights. While a part of me applauds the body confidence and positivity of younger women (something my own generation could never quite manage), a larger part believes children shouldn’t have to feel as though they are trapped in a Sisqó music video every time they go to the beach.
Imagine my delight then, when marie claire asks me to trial a G-string bikini for this piece. My initial response is “I’d rather eat glass,” but after giving it some thought I figure I should at least try to see what all the fuss is about. I purchase a cheap black pair online and, as I do so, two things happen: my husband becomes all octopus-like at the thought, and my 12-year-old gives me a lengthy list of beaches I am not allowed to visit within five kilometres of our home. “Twenty-year-olds look ridiculous enough in those things, so just think how stupid someone your age is going to look,” she spits. I usually wear a (full brief) bikini to the beach, but I suspect she’d cover me in a muu-muu if she could.
G Day: I arrive at the beach early on a weekday morning, when I know I’m not likely to run into anyone but new mums who view 7am as the new midday. I hesitate for some time about removing my dress, even though I realise there’s a ridiculous arrogance to this, as though every head is going to swivel the minute my butt is exposed. One hour in I take it off, immediately attaching myself – buttocks down – to my towel as though staple-gunned to it. For the next 10 minutes, I sweat profusely – not from the heat but from my personal discomfort about being so bare in public. What does this say about me? Probably that I’m a prude and need to crawl back into the 1980s where I belong. But before I can delve too deep into the dynamics of my particular mindset, I am drawn to an older woman sitting on the bench. She is wearing a simple black one piece paired with red lipstick and a large black sun hat. Although she is surrounded by what looks like rows of glazed Christmas hams – my own included – it’s clear that she’s the sexiest (not to mention the classiest) woman on the beach. Relieved, I throw my dress back on and practically skip to the kiosk nearby. When I grow up, she’s exactly what I hope to be, but I’ll keep my G-strings handy for the home front.