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It ain’t Bubbly Water
Summer in Canada is a difficult time to be a human. First of all, there’s the heat, the humidity, the crowded beaches, the congested roadways. Secondly, there’s the belief we should all have a bathing suit body. I have spent at least sixty years being concerned about the shape I’m in. Like a lot of all y’all, I was a teenager in the sixties. Summer in the sixties was all about itsy-itsy bikinis, rodding around in convertibles, lounging on sandy stretches, tanning, sipping a Sea Breeze, hanging-ten and those beach bodies. Oh baby, we all hungered for the perfect beach body and did just about everything in our power to get it, and then made sure we worked to cover it with the perfect tan! In my lean teen years I was living in Toronto. We were literally thousands of miles away from California— the epicentre of the summer beach culture and it was only in my dreams I had a tan-to-beat-the-band and the Seventeen Magazine “swim proof hair-do” along with the best ever “suit” from Sea Queen. A teenaged gal and her pals could thumb through those mags and dream all of those dreams. When we finally packed away our PhysEd tank suits and white bathing caps at the end of June, we filled our beach bags with skimpy swimwear, pop-tops cover-ups, huarache sandals and that precious tube of Coppertone. The sixties in the summer! What a time to be alive.
From that point on my timeline until very, very recently I was obsessed with “the shape I’m in” from the top of my frizzy head to the tip of my painted toenails. Like millions of others, and most definitely all of my girlfriends, I dieted, straightened my hair, and sprayed it with Sun In and practised my wiggle and wore my sandals and fussed about how I looked. I am as guilty as the next seventy-something woman for giving a good-gosh-darn about what others thought about my appearance, especially in the summer because, seriously, you have everything to hide and nowhere to hide it. As a younger person, I looked forward to, and dreaded, the advent of summer. Summertime meant judgement time. From the moment my high school locker was cleaned out, the last exam was written and the calendar flipped from June to July, it was time to do a serious reckoning with my summer facade. Did my short-shorts still fit? Did my pop top cover almost enough? Did I have cellulite? Were my legs to freckly? Will my hair frizz-up if it gets wet at the beach? Did I have a pair of sunglasses to make me look very cool and very indifferent? What about suntan oils and creams? Which one was the best for a “tan don’t burn” look? I spent far too much of my hard earned babysitting money and definitely too much time worrying about how I looked when I was a teenager. I often missed out on the fun of just being with my friends. I can’t say I ever really relaxed when I was younger. And then?
Well, and then I got old and tired of all of the baloney. I had toted all of my body angst along with me into my twenties, thirties, forties and fifties. I knew how to put on a good show of enjoying the “good ole summer time” but deep inside I was still a teenager filled with bodyshaming fear. And here I am, today. I’m heading to the shady side of seventy and I’ve finally convinced myself “enough is enough”. I don’t need to win anyone over with my style, or profound lack thereof. I don’t need anyone’s approval— perceived or otherwise—to be myself. If I want to wear the ridiculously large sunhat, coupled with an equally ridiculous pair of sunnies, I will do so. Don’t you dare ask me if it’s really bubbly water in my Zoku mug. It might be. Don’t give me the side-eye when I pull a massive bag of Lay’s Plain Chips out of my carryall. I’ve earned my treats. If I want to wear my undies into my pool, I’ll wear my undies when I take a dip. If I wear a t-shirt with my tankini, I didn’t do so because I wanted someone to give me summer-fashionpointers.
Just look the other way, folks. I’m diving into summer being the Diva I really am and always meant to be. I do this with huge thanks all y’all who know enough to keep your yap zipped. And, “no”, it ain’t bubbly water.
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