The Bikini: A Style That Went Nuclear
Can you believe the bikini turned sixty in 2006?
Named after an island where the United States tested
a nuclear device in 1946, the original bikini rocked the
fashion world when it was first revealed on Paris run-
ways. Models refused to wear the suit because it was
considered too scanty, so the designer hired a nude
dancer to show off his beach bombshell.
Even though practically everyone under thirty wears bikinis nowadays, they′re still considered to be the ultimate dressing room challenge.
– From The Little Book of Beauty Secrets by Mimi Morgan
″Help, Evelyn! My ass is being attacked by giant daisies,″ I announced the next morning, smacking my butt for effect.
″It can′t be that bad,″ Evelyn called from the other side of the dressing room door. We were shopping at a bathing-suit store called Swimsuit Heaven. But after sweating through a series of god-awful try-ons, I felt like I was burning in Swimsuit Hell.
Evelyn poked her head inside and squinted at my latest candidate, which paired a bandeau top with a pair of flower-power bikini bottoms. ″Uh, right. That one not so much,″ she said.
″This is totally hopeless. Maybe I can attach some superlong hair extensions and hide my body underneath them to do the story. It worked for Lady Godiva,″ I replied. ″The viewers will just think I′m naked.″
The reflection of my bare belly under the fluorescent dressing-room lights was worse than I′d feared. When my waist cincher was removed, it had unleashed a short stack of bulges that spread east and west. To make things worse, each roll of fat was stippled with a line of bite marks where the cincher′s hooks had once held it in check.
″I can′t do this.″ I shook my head violently. ″I cannot go on camera with this body. I′ll quit my job first. That′s what I′ll do-I′m gonna quit.″
A young-sounding voice trilled through the latticed door, ″How are we doing in there?″
″We′re doing peachy as frickin′ hell in here, thanks,″ I snapped.
A teenaged salesgirl peered past Evelyn, who was still standing in the doorway. Her eyes widened as they registered the imprinted row of dark pink hook marks on my newly unbound flesh.
″Oh, I′m so sorry-I didn′t know you just had stomach surgery,″ the girl whispered, and quickly retreated.
As I scowled and squirmed my way out of the bandeau top, Evelyn placed her fists on her hips. ″You′re not even going to think about quitting your job,″ she said. ″And may I point out the obvious? Jonathan loves every inch of your body. I can tell by the way he looks at you.″
″Well, get this-he′s never seen me naked with the lights on.″
Evelyn stared at me. ″Are you serious?″
Since her divorce, Evelyn had memorized every episode of Sex and the City. She must have assumed that was the way all singletons had sex.
″It′s not that unusual.″ I tried to keep a defensive note from creeping into my tone. ″I always set a romantic mood by putting on an outfit I buy online from Sexy Divas. Then, when things heat up, I turn off the lights. He thinks I do that because I was raised Irish Catholic. Oh God.″ I grabbed hold of both sides of my hair as a new thought whapped into my brain.
″What? What?″
″Jonathan′s squad mates are going to see this series,″ I said. ″Every cop in town is going to see more of me naked than he has. Oh, shit.″
I leaned my back against the mirror, then slid slowly down into a sitting position on the floor, legs splayed out in front of me. The sudden compression squeezed out my stomach below the belly button like a water balloon.
″I′ll be humiliated,″ I moaned. ″He′ll be humiliated. He′ll break up with me.″
″No, he won′t-stop it. Just share your feelings with him when he gets back from the UK.″ Evelyn was into sharing feelings in a major way. She touted it as a cure-all that could bring about world peace.
When I didn′t respond, she added, ″When′s Jonathan due back?″
″Next week, I think.″
″You think?″
″Well, he didn′t exactly tell me.″
″Oh?″ Evelyn glanced away. ″Huh.″
″What huh?″
When she didn′t answer, I glared at her until finally she shrugged. ″Well, whenever a guy doesn′t exactly tell me what′s going on, I kick his planet′s butt right out of my solar system,″ she said.
″Well, give him a break, Judy Jetson. His mother had pneumonia, for Pete′s sake.″
″Sorry about that, but it doesn′t make any difference, ″ she replied with a sniff. ″Guys are like dogs-you have to teach ′em how to heel.″
″Maybe with some men you do, but not with Jonathan.″
I didn′t want to tell Evelyn that there′d been some tension between Jonathan and me just before he′d left for the airport. It had been over something completely stupid, something that was sure to blow away as soon as we talked again, but still. Right then I was a little bit worried.
Evelyn snapped her wrist like someone jerking back on a leash. ″All I know is, it never hurts to give ′em a little yank every now and then,″ she said. ″Especially with a guy as hot as he is.″
I thumped my head against the mirror and squeezed my eyes shut. ″You′re right-he is hot,″ I said. ″So why would he want to see me naked? I don′t even want to see me naked. Clearly my love life is over.″
″No, it isn′t,″ Evelyn countered. ″You just have to have some faith in yourself-and in him.″
When I refused to open my eyes, she added nervously, ″I′ll go find some tanning cream. It does miracles for minimizing.″ She bolted from the dressing room.
Make him heel. I′d never dream of playing manipulative games like that with Jonathan. But here was a harsh countertruth: Only women who have great bodies could play those games. I wasn′t even qualified to step onto the field.
I′d observed plenty, though. For example, I′d noticed that whenever Jonathan and I were out together, the women who entered his radius warmed to his British accent and blue-green eyes, which ignited whenever a smile cracked through his homicide cop′s reserve.
Jonathan had never given me any cause to suspect that he paid attention to come-hither signals from other women. But then why had he stopped calling me daily from the UK? Something bad was obviously going on. Maybe his mom had gotten worse.
Or maybe the problem was with me. Jonathan had looked baffled-and a little pissed-right before he left for the UK, when I′d refused for the umpteenth time to let him join me in my morning shower. As always I′d been too embarrassed to explain that it wasn′t because I didn′t want him with me; I′d simply wanted to spare him the vision of my soft surplusage. He hadn′t spoken to me again before leaving for the airport. Not even to say good-bye.
″Smart move, Bloberella,″ I said. A hot, slow-moving tear slid down my nose and splashed onto my upper lip. I swiped it away with the back of my hand.
It wasn′t only Jonathan′s sudden bout of incommunicado that was bothering me. My reflection in the mirror forced me to admit that I was a failure on several fronts. Two years earlier, I′d made the move south to Durham from my original hometown of Boston with two goals in mind-to lose weight and to get hired as a TV reporter. I′d won the job, but now it seemed like I might be losing my edge. And I was heavier than ever.
Then go find an easier job, stupid. Become a fat, happy bread baker. Break up with Jonathan before he dumps you. Run away again.
My cell alarm beeped from deep inside my purse, interrupting my reverie of gloom and doom; it was 11:40. I′d have to scramble to make it on time for my lunch with Jana. No more time to gnaw at my paw with self-destructive thoughts.
I squeezed myself back into my waist cincher, then got dressed and tracked down Evelyn to say good-bye.
Minutes later I was threading my way through the mall parking lot toward my car. Tiny, dark crows of worry had started to gather at the edges of my thoughts about my relationship with Jonathan. Surely he′d banish all those shadows as soon as we had a chance to actually speak over the phone. Evelyn was probably right-I just had to have a little faith. And patience.
Unfortunately, patience has never been my strong suit. It′s a character flaw that gets me into trouble all the time.