To the Land of Bikini and Back

Whoa! It's been two weeks since I've posted here; is the world ending? Was I swallowed up by a giant sea squid or imprisoned for being way too brash? Better question: have you missed me and my weekly blabber gabber I send out to the Never-Neverlands of the cyber world?

My crazy, happy, beautiful brood.

Well, I missed you, and I want you to know I didn't abandon my post here. I've just been soaking up some rays at the Outer Banks, which was a much-needed respite from the daily grind. Change is always a good thing, particularly when the days are so stock-full of errands and appointments you forget when the week started and when it ended.

Don't think, though, I was there purely for fun and play. You see, I was in the trenches, my friends. I was getting down and dirty and sandy (and a little bit salty, I must say) on the very frontlines of a simmering battle between what should be and what is. I was a torch-bearing, ass-kickin' rebel leading the charge in the Bikini Revolution.

And, yes, yes, YES!, I donned my very first bikini in twelve years. Can I get a Whoop! Whoop!

Sadly, prior to my recent bikini phenomenon, I had only modeled a two-piece twice in my entire life. The first time really doesn't count as I was about three years old. The second time I was in college and on a very private beach with my younger brother, Mark, who I have to say was my champion that trip and made me feel like I could pull it off. I never thanked him for that, but looking back, I really appreciated his unwavering confidence in me because I certainly had not found mine yet.

Chillin' on the shore with my sexy man.

Fast forward roughly 12 years, and here I am, a 30-year-old mother of three with a size 8 body (still under toning construction, I might add) and the pouchy remnants of three c-sections and perhaps a few more dimpled parts than I'd had in college...and of course, my crowning glory, my boobs, which have endured three booby feeders, the third of which is still clinging on like a monkey high on ripe bananas. You do the math and figure how that equates to major, jaw-dropping droopage.

The point I'm making, though a little roughly, is I am not perfect and definitely not a poster girl for society's ideal bikini bod. Really, though, most women will never meet society's expectations of what we should look like, which is why it is so important for me to stand up for the average woman (Who is not a size 2, by the way! Didn't you ever notice the only sizes left on the racks are size 2 and extra small?)

Regardless of my bikini anxiety, I had committed to wearing a bikini this summer, and I was not backing out of my promise. The truth is I needed to overcome my fear of the two-piece in order to fully accept my body the way it is and to be comfortable in my own skin. And, I wanted to do more than run my mouth about how we as strong, independent women need to stand up to society and say "enough!" I needed to take some action. So what if I am only one woman and one bikini. Perhaps I influenced some other women on the beach last week to take the plunge, embrace their curves and flaunt some skin. I mean, come on, if I can do it, anyone can.

Look, I have four legs!
You know you love my meaty
drumsticks, right?

So, I packed in my suitcase two bikinis, and I added my leftover bikini from 12 years ago to my supply just for good measure. I packed no other swimwear other than a rash guard in case the kids wanted to ride on my back in the pool (Irish skin, man. I burn like a mother!). I gave myself no outs, no excuses and nowhere to run except the naked road. And, my husband had already put the brakes on that particular avenue. Such a prude, Rick. Such a prude.

I have to tell you, I was extremely self conscious the first day at the beach. No lie. I had a brief moment where I set foot on the sand in my new bikini, and I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself in it so deep no one could see the monstrosity underneath, and I planned to wait right there, snug in my little hole until Rick brought me a cover up. I swear I felt like every eyeball on the beach was trained on my not-so-perfect body, and every mouth attached to that eyeball was either laughing or cringing in a not-so-encouraging manner. I felt like the carnival freak show had come to town, and I was its opening act.

The money shot.
See...not the ideal, but damn it
was nice to feel free! 

Five seconds later...my little self-conscious girl moment had passed, and I no longer gave a shit. I raised my chin, walked out onto that beach and strutted my stuff in front of the entire Corolla population. Take THAT, society! And, the funny thing is, once I got passed those first few moments before I took the plunge into the land of bikini, I felt like a new woman...liberated and strong, confident and sexy, and I really just didn't care what anyone thought. I was comfortable; I was happy; I felt amazing; and in that moment of what the New York Times called the "come-to-Jesus" moment, I became the "good-attitude girl" and fell head over heels in love with my bikini.

For those of you snickering right now and thinking, good for you, Mary, but you won't catch me in a bikini this summer, here's the cold, hard truth.

My girl in her bitsy bikini.
Totally too big for her, but hey,
she's got time.

No one was looking at me. No one cared. I had entered the mecca of the bikini universe, and I was just one more semi-naked body in a sea of self-loving women.

Apparently, I am a little late to join ranks in the Bikini Revolution. It's been going on right under my nose, and I never sniffed it out. There were bikini babes of all shapes, sizes and ages running around the beach that week, and no one seemed to care what was hanging out or in some cases, not hanging out of their two piece. Grandmas, mommies, teens and even little girls rocked bikinis...on the beaches, at the pools, up and down the streets and even in the grocery store. It was like women's liberation had laid claim to the Outer Banks, and these women were going to do what they wanted to do whether or not they fit the ideal stereotype of the bikini bod.

Needless to say, I relished in it. I drank up the plethora of female confidence like a frosty margarita on a steaming hot day. It was refreshing. It was beautiful. It was heaven, and I took full advantage and cloud surfed this wave for the entire week and literally LIVED in my bikini.

So, there you have it. I followed through on my promise, and I overcame my fear of the dreaded bikini season. And, you know what, it wasn't so bad after all. I hope my little Emma appreciates what I did for her, and in the process, what I did for myself.

Rock on, ladies. The summer is just starting, and we have a looonnggg bikini season ahead of us. Saddle up, put on your big girl panties, and take the plunge into what may be uncharted waters for you...just make sure you've got that hot, sexy bikini on when you ride your first wave.
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Got bikini on the brain? Read more articles about this topic on my Fresh Press page.