Why I Don’t Wear Bikinis
It’s not the reason you think.
I’m particular about my bathing suits: long shorts, and shirts that cover the midriff and cleavage. You might find me poking through the men’s trunks at Target, or making special orders online when spring comes around.
A relative once complimented me on a swim shirt. “Thanks,” I said. “I love these things. They’re—”
“Great for the mommy belly, I know,” she interrupted, patting her own motherly middle, also covered up. I laughed, but only because I didn’t know what else to do. In truth, it made me sad.
I actually really like my body. I like my boobs, I like my belly. My face is friendly, my butt pleasantly pillowy. (Don’t have much of an opinion about my knees, but they’re probably fine?) It saddened me to know she felt ashamed of her body, and it hurt she thought I should be ashamed of mine.
I don’t cover up out of shame. I cover up out of love.
After I gave birth to my second daughter, my mother took a photo in the hospital. It’s the standard picture: new mom holding baby, tired but pleased.
You can’t tell, but the hospital gown is torn and already smells of spit-up. I’m bleeding heavily into a pair of cheap mesh underwear, ice packs on my crotch. My nipples are bruised. I haven’t slept in days…
