The European and I are going to the beach today. This means that I shall spent the next half hour or so trying to determine whether I’m feeling more confident about the state of my thighs (unlikely, given my futile efforts to rid myself of cellulite) or my stomach (also unlikely because here in Philadelphia we celebrate the 4th of July for about a week and half, which means you end up eating hot dogs and pasta salad and various iterations of cake for 10 days straight).
It will be our fourth-and-a-half date (the “half” because he was valiant enough to brave my parents’ annual roof deck BBQ after our picnic in Wissahicken this past weekend. He maintains the BBQ counts as a separate date; I maintain that it was just a continuation of our earlier rendezvous, even though he went home in between to watch the World Cup and change into yet another pair of fabulous shoes).
I haven’t been on a fourth-and-a-half date in about three years. So obviously the stomach/thighs debate is an important one, rendered all the more important by the fact that my date actually works out on a daily (and not semi-annual) basis and… well, let’s just say I’m pretty sure he’s going to look very good in a bathing suit.
Anyway, because I was supposed to move over two weeks ago and have already packed the majority of my wardrobe, it’s down to the very form fitting, very sexy fuchsia tankini (which covers my stomach but not my thighs) or the less clingy two-piece (which covers my thighs but not my stomach).
Someday I’ll have the confidence not to care, but today is not that day.
I would, however, like to pause and note one minor area of progress in the body image department.
Those of you who know me in the real world (or who read my cup size lamentations in Reverse-Trick-or-Treating) know that I am not exactly what one would call “well endowed.” As such, I’ve spent the majority of my adult life wearing padded bras, underwire, carefully draped scarves and strategically ruffled shirts.
On my first date with The European, however, I wore my blue and green chiffon maxi dress. Said dress does not zip over my rather generously sized ribcage if I wear a bra so I went without.
On our second date (the World Cup match), I came straight from work and even though I’d brought a dress to change into, along with a rather fantastic shoes and hat combo if I do say so myself, I completely forgot to pack a bra.
On our third date (the picnic at Wissahicken), I wore my low cut navy blue batik tank top. Said tank top is too low cut to accommodate a bra so I went, once again, without.
Finally, for our third-and-a-half date (my parents’ roof deck BBQ), I borrowed a dress of my mother’s. It was 90-something degrees out and since the dress had a bunch of floral embellishments along the neckline, I figured it was a safe bet to… you know… abstain.
Long story short (sorry, I get a bit carried away when I’m talking about clothes), The European has never actually seen me in a bra. Either he hasn’t noticed or he doesn’t care and frankly, I’m perfectly fine either way. Besides, you can’t do a better job of “just being yourself” than letting the girls go free, right?