I haven’t bought a swimsuit since before becoming pregnant 6 years ago. I still have my tiny little string bikini that hugged my taut 135 pound frame. I don’t know why. Did I really think I’d ever fit in it again? I’ve finally come to the realization that I won’t. So after six years of avoiding pools and beaches, I bought a new swimsuit. One that’s not skimpy: that covers my belly and all of its extra-skin-and-stretch-mark glory.
Scantily-clad larger women say, “I’m a thin girl in a fat girl’s body.” Not me: I’m the opposite: I’m a 250-pound girl in a 150-pound body. I am not overly large, but I feel like I am. I anticipate getting winded walking up stairs although it doesn’t happen. I have the insecurities of a much larger woman: covering up my body, wearing black to hide its many curves and dips. I’m the girl that much larger women hate if I ever so much as mention a literal muffin top.
But that’s because I still remember six years ago how hot I looked. And I just need to let it go. I went swimming in a pool in my one-piece last Saturday. It felt good. I only tugged at it and readjusted a few times.
I’m wearing shorts again this summer. My legs even got a little color on them. Steve told me he’s never seen my skin this dark before. That is like compliment gold for a woman of my complexion.
Life is too short to always be worried about what other people see of you. Because you’re never going to get everyone to like the way you look no matter what. I need to embrace what I’ve got, even if it’s not what it once was. If I’m OK with it and my husband is OK with it, what do I care about other worthless opinions? And I’m learning: six years later, I made a huge leap by buying this damn old lady one piece swimsuit.