While we were in Barbados, sweating our respective boobs and balls off (inside joke between the Mr. and myself but surely it is well understood by all), the least amount of clothing on land and sea was acceptable if not appropriate. It was damned hot. I wore a bikini on arrival and I had a newborn with me in tow and could not muster enough to really give a damn. I couldn't even imagine swathing myself in so much cloth as to cover my entire midsection. I spent two years never wearing socks, a bra, blowdrying my hair, or doing anything that might make me too hot. Perhaps at times it was indecent. I can only even consider that now as I find myself crowded in Suburbanation at the community pool.
There are all types of bodies at the pool ranging from letting it all go to incredibly hot. What seems to be stressed in the mommy set, certainly not in the teen/pre-teen set where kinda anything goes, is modesty. Even on the days where the temps reached over 100 degrees Fahrenheit there were cover-ups, shorts, tankinis, ruffled tops, etc covering all parts. I gave it a go in a few Barbados staples for the first couple of visits and then gave in and bought a tankini top. It's cute. I'm totally not hot. At least I don't want anyone to think I am or that I am trying to be.
Funny enough, in Barbados I could be wearing a tiny little bikini, sitting at a bar or on the beach and did not feel self-conscious in the least. Yet out here I am stressed that all the wiggly bits are just too wiggly, that my suit is revealing the hours spent outside of the gym, and I find safety and security in my striped swimmy tank top that has signed me up quickly for the MahJong with the ladies in a week or two. For some reason, here I care what someone, anyone might think about me, and have found safety in the fabric. The tankini is like sunglasses for the body. I can have my private time while still looking around.
I always imagined myself Jerry Hall style, rocking a hot bod, baby on the hip, bikini under some incredible caftan, gorgeous, talented man giving me the goo-goo eyes in the blazing hot sun, not giving a damn. Barbados took the hubby away with that crap job where he worked pretty much non-stop, and the suburbs has taken all the rest of it. Well, the babies grew up. Now they are just in tow with all their toys and snacks and towels and chatter. We eat chicken fingers at the snack bar, take ice cream with us on the way out. I wade in the middle pool with the people, where they can touch the bottom and swim about freely, and I can hope for a friend with kiddles to chat with or else stare into the landscape while popping in and out of kiddie convo. "Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! Mom, look!" I take a moment to astrally travel before coming back down.
Perhaps it is still all me. I've struggled with the suburbs all my life. I feel self-conscious (a kiss of death), too much, overwhelming, and ridiculous out here. I think too much about it, consider it, consider it all, and just want to cover up. Middle age has crept up on me and taken me back to the insecurities of my teenage years. I imagine that this is how people get so tied up in their kids, or use them as an excuse, a way to deflect the focus or the spotlight from themselves. No matter how I feel about myself out here, I feel like my girls are awesome, that I can give them more than I have, that they can be better than I ever felt. In their names I will march all over that community pool looking for toys to play with in the baby pool, encourage them to swim and search for dive sticks in the middle pool, change my clothes in the parking lot with the doors opened covering up any jiggly bits.
I will go every day so that they can swim and play, There's really is no place for me to hide anyway. I believe that I am back here in the suburbs, back here in New Jersey, where I'd said I'd never return to heal old wounds, to make amends, to get to a place of peace. I know I can't move forward without it and I can't fully love me up if I still feel like I have to rock the tankini when I have a bikini heart. Even if/when the bikini body fades. Especially then. We can't cover it all up. Why cover up any of it?
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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