A bikini.
Nothing wild. Navy blue. High-waisted bottoms. A halter top with little white stitching along the edges. Tasteful, I thought. Cute, even. I bought it because I liked it, which is not something women my age are encouraged to say out loud. We’re supposed to talk about comfort, support, coverage, and what’s “appropriate.”
But I liked it.
I liked the way it made me feel like I was still allowed to have a body instead of just a history.
The night before our first beach day, I was folding things in my room when my youngest grandson, Tyler, wandered in looking for sunscreen. He saw the swimsuit laid out on the bed.
He blinked. “Wait. You’’re wearing that?”
I laughed. “That is usually what one does with a swimsuit, yes.”
He gave an awkward little smile, the kind kids do when they don’t want to be the one to say the uncomfortable thing.
Then Ava, my oldest granddaughter, appeared in the doorway behind him. She looked at the bed, then at me.
“Grandma,” she said quietly, “are you serious?”
I remember still smiling. “About going swimming? Very.”
“No, I mean…” She glanced at Tyler, then back at me. “People are going to stare.”
