I Have Issues
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: Bonaire, which is a tiny island off the coast of Venezuela, part of the Caribbean Netherlands. There are four languages spoken on the island: Dutch, Papiamento, English, and Spanish. Our next-door neighbors, though, speak Portuguese, which doesn’t confuse me at all.
I have issues
We met a former supermodel at a beach back in the spring. She’s roughly my age, and one thing I learned from our time together (there were a number of things, but this was a significant one) is that there’s no such thing as a former supermodel. She rocks a string bikini in a way that I have never been able to, in my life, even at my thinnest or my fittest. Y’all. I did a freaking Ironman, once upon a time. Even then, considerably less padded than I am today, my shape was not suited to an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny-yellow-polka-dot-bikini, or any other.
I’ve never really thought of myself as a person who has body image issues, but I seriously considered developing some, earlier this year. Between the supermodel comparisons, and our visit to Jose Ignacio, a little beach town in Uruguay, I really started to get a complex. You may never have heard of Jose Ignacio, but then again, you may have. It’s where wealthy Argentinians and Brazilians go for their summer beach holiday, and it could easily be where the phrase ‘beautiful people’ originated. We had an outstanding lunch in a famous, world-class restaurant on the sand, surrounded by—well, beautiful people, rather scantily clad. I felt like a bumpkin. A bumpkin wearing too many clothes.
I like a nice tankini. It’s easier to get on and off than a one piece (hello, sticky wrestling match with spandex straps), but it doesn’t show my squishy stomach. Lee keeps saying I should ditch my tankini & just carry the smallest bikini i can find. It would take up so much less room in my suitcase. But I’m not there yet. The pool in our apartment complex here on Bonaire is used primarily by older Dutch women, every single one of whom wears a bikini skimpier than any I’ve ever owned. I envy them their self-confidence, but for now, this tummy is not ready to go public. I pull a rash guard over my tankini, strap on my mask and snorkel, and stomp off to the ocean. I know the fish aren’t judging my pandemic squishy bits.
From my writer’s notebook:
At the moment, my writer’s notebook is focused primarily on actually writing, which is a huge relief after the last few (okay, eight, give or take) months of being totally distracted by Covid news. But I did stumble across a fascinating archaeological tidbit in the news last week: apparently the sudden rapid melt rate of Alpine glaciers is releasing layers of artifacts that have been frozen under the ice for many thousands of years. Archaeologists are racing against to find and preserve these remnants of human history, before they are either ruined by exposure, or taken home by curious hikers and forever lost to study. Can you imagine stumbling across a two-thousand-year-old wooden tool or statue, and just hanging it on your living room wall?
Ooh—that reminds me of a story . . . Next week!
Take care,
Lisa
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