Every
spring I am tempted by the bright colours and patterns of the new summer
fashion ranges glowing from highstreet windows to buy a bikini. I’m a magpie
for fun clothes and when hung and folded nicely, bikinis look fun. They’re
always yellow and pink with palm leaf prints and often with frills, sequins, craftily arranged string and holes in odd places. They leave little
to the imagination but when on those tiny hangers somehow have a Siren way of
fooling me into thinking that a certain shade of neon is enough to hide all the
bits of my body I don’t like.
Every
spring I will duly arm myself with these sets, each half probably costing more than 6 x the price of the material it's made of, and head
to the fitting rooms optimistically. A shop assistant will give me a number tag
and I will hunt for a curtain without a stressed, wiggling woman behind it.
Every spring
I will gently cry in my fitting room, staring at my flat chest, wobbly tummy,
broad shoulders, red arms and ghostly white legs. Carefully I will hang the
lycra back onto its hangers, struggling to navigate the string and failing to
make it look anything like what tempted me before.
Today I tried
again for this year, picking out the same pink palm-leaf printed set that’s
featured in varying ways in every summer collection. I took it to the fitting
room and tried it on and to my surprise found a plot twist in my bikini
narrative. Looking in the mirror, I smiled. I don’t know whether this was
because the bikini itself was different to previous ones I’d tried, or whether
my body has changed to become something I can more easily accept, or whether
(and I really do hope it’s this) I’m just more content and my eyes are kinder.
The ironic thing
is I don’t actually have an appropriate trip planned this summer to wear said
bikini, but I am happy enough simply owning one and feeling confident in it.Little victories, ey?
Ro is listening to: Changing of the Seasons by Two Door Cinema Club