Bikinis are great, wonderful, absolutely terrifying things. Ask me; I played and replayed – and attempted to duplicate, for a fortnight – the antics of one super-fit woman on a Youtube video who looked like no leg press in the world could shake off her smile. (WHO smiles like that whilst they look like their leg could go flying off from all that jiggling and wiggling?) Anywho, for all intents and purposes, there is much that goes behind the creation of a perfect bikini moment, and it is nothing short of a theatrical performance.
Here is how the Story of a Bikini (usually) pans out.
Cast of characters:
A bikini (Or two. Or three. In this case, three)
The wearer of a bikini (ME)
The purveyors/surveyors/social audience
Act I.
The germ of an idea
Sister from Mumbai calls to let me know that the housing society she lives in now has an exciting new addition – a brand spanking new swimming pool.
Sister: So basically, we can wade in the pool all day and lounge like superstars on white lounge chairs. And look totally fabulous.
Me: And I can wear a bikini? I’ve always wanted to wear a bikini.
End scene.
Act II.
The buying of the bikini (Or two. Or three. In this case, three)
I Google some designs, but give up midway because male colleagues breathing down my neck are far more interested in the models wearing the swimsuits in the pictures than actually pointing out, “vertical stripes are very in”. I go on foot, instead.
I ask (at first) sheepishly to be directed to the swimsuit section – then, with greater confidence as I think of body positivity and everything I’ve ever preached with elan. I am rewarded with a triumphant display of designs.
Soliloquy:
This is not easy. It is NOT easy.
This isn’t like picturing Priyanka Chopra or channelling Pamela Anderson or Googling swimsuit shots...
What fit is the bottom?
Is the top the right size?
Is this fabric truly water-durable?
What happens if I sneeze too hard?
(End scene) Three kinds of swimsuits have been bought after being completely and irrevocably carried away. I can do this. I’ve got this in the bag. (Three, to be precise.)
Act III.
A journey of a doubt
SETTING: Doubts are all-pervasive, incessant makkhis on well-buttered toast. They refuse to be swatted away, and the buzzing hounds you till you’ve found an especially large sautéing pan. In this case, the sautéing pan is a collection of all brave things you’ve ever told yourself. I spend three weeks panting in front of aforementioned YouTube videos. I know this is a good thing, but the DOUBTS are not.
Soliloquy:
You shouldn’t care what the world thinks about you.
Your stomach or your hips.
Or your butt.
Or your thighs.
Items of clothing are symbols of choice.
Exercise the choice.
Your choice.
Act IV.
A very cold pool
I wade into the pool after having twisted (as far as a body can twist) in front of the mirror in my new white bikini to check for ‘imperfections’. Self-admonishing follows this self-policing: can I stop checking myself?
I reach the edge of the pool and dip one foot into the water. A small step for swimmers, a giant step for acceptance.
I immerse myself in water. I skirt a glance around. Except for inviting ripples of water, there are no inviting stares. The water is cold; but that’s nothing compared to the coldness with which I’ve treated myself in the run up to this ‘ideal version of me’. I let go.
Act V.
Letting go
Sister: I’m going to teach you to swim (somewhat).
(She teaches me to swim, somewhat.)
I waddle, gasp for breath, come up panting, go back underwater determined, manage to keep body afloat.
I try again the next day. I stay alive/afloat a little longer. I gasp for breath less – and in all the hullabaloo and the listening for instructions while ear disappears underwater, I forget about the DOUBTS.
Soliloquy:
A middle-aged woman has just waded into the pool next to me.
I wait anxiously for her to comment on my choice of attire.
She comes over.
But she talks about swimming styles instead.
She tells me I have mastered a lot in a day.
A man stops near the pool and whips out a phone.
He pretends to be scrolling through his feed…
…but I can tell he’s more interested in photographing us
Before I can shout out,
My new female companion has waded out and called security
The man is shouted at and his phone confiscated
The woman comes back into the pool
And we exchange a nod of camaraderie.
I’ve forgotten what I’m wearing
I have found a (not-so-silent) friend.
Act VI.
A Facebook feed
I tell my sister to take a picture of me – proud ol’ me – grinning stupidly in a white bikini, floundering in water (I don’t bother to hold my stomach in, as I’d practised.) She does and I put it up on Facebook. A well-wisher or two (mostly relatives) call to ask if that was altogether appropriate. I guide their gaze gently towards the men in the background in my photograph – dressed in swimming trunks meant to be swum in. I guide another abrasive well-wisher to the photographs that adorn his desktop screen at regular intervals. Is the censure at all fair?
Largely though, I gently guide myself towards acceptance.
Soliloquy:
No more tucking in of stomachs to fit photo standards.
No caring whether little or more fabric shall
Show up little or more of me.
No worrying about people.
People who aren’t me.
This is about choice.
Not fear.
I believe it was at that exact moment that the wearer of the bikini let go.
(End of Scene. End of Act. End of Crippling Imperfection Phobia)
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