I don’t want to write about bikinis. I want to write about the amazing blue cheese dressing I made with buttermilk! (For some reason, I think buttermilk is the coolest thing ever.) And the pizza I found myself absentmindedly dipping in it until I’d eaten a whole piece like that.
I want to write about little victories and subtle triumphs. But there’s a bikini in the back of my mind, its strings tangling in my thoughts, its sliver of a bottom giving my brain a wedgie.
The thing is, I keep lying. Because I’m embarrassed.
This month, my husband Bear and I are going on a trip with my family. My parents won the trip, to a beautiful house in the Virgin Islands, in a synagogue raffle. My brothers and their girlfriends are coming, too. I can’t wait. I am imagining the ocean and that sudden sense of eternity that engulfs you when you look at it. You have to look away, because it’s too big.
Also, I will be wearing a bikini, I’m assuming. Since I have never found a one-piece that was a match for my long torso. Since I am young and sexy and perfectly capable of wearing a bikini.
I hope. Keep reading »
