Listen up folks. Bathing suit season is upon us. We have very little time. As the temperature rises, the threat of exposure increases. Soon we will be obliged to reveal the acres of tender flesh we have been farming lo these past seven months. And ready or not, after Memorial Day, we will hit the sand in jiggling herds wearing little more than sun block and a self-conscious smirk.
I am a solid citizen. A size 12. I tip the scales at about a buck-fifty. I left behind the idea that I needed to be rail thin a long time ago. Some might call me full-bodied, I say I’m Midwestern. That way it sounds reassuring, like something good to hang onto, not something to try to hide. My weight is substantial, but not unhealthy. It looks good on me. I have places to go and things to eat and I can’t be bothered with someone else’s idea of beauty. When I step out of the shower and look in the mirror, I like what I see.
It’s when I have to stuff my goodies into one square foot of patterned spandex and traipse out in public that the trouble starts. With a swimsuit, there are all sorts of problems. I have yet to find a suit bottom that stays put. Even the new boy-cut surfer shorts that are all the rage. I can’t take five steps from beach blanket to shore without making the entire back of my suit disappear. Alacazam and Presto! It’s my special magic trick. I could wear a thong, but something in my working-class DNA prevents me from spending 20 bucks on an item of clothing you can hardly see. I’d rather draw one on with a Sharpie.
Another concern with the change of season is sun exposure. Have you ever read all the precautions that dermatologists want you to take before you step out into the great outdoors? Is it my imagination or does the list get longer every year? Sun block, check. Big hat, check. Sunglasses, check. Lip balm, check. You can still see a few defiant souls flash-frying themselves here and there, around the lakes, in their yards, going for that St. Tropez glow. But until “Fruit Leather” becomes a sought-after skin texture, I’ll just be sitting over there, under that tree, wearing my Standard Government Issue anti-gamma ray poncho and boots.
Actually, for the last couple of years, I have been involved in several self-tanning accidents. I have worked my way through every brand of bronzer; from high-end cosmetic counter green-tea infused cinnamon butters, to discount chain-store brand paste, with the same results. I follow the directions, exfoliate, moisturize, and smooth on using quick upward strokes, allowing time to dry thoroughly before putting clothes back on. Golden, sun-kissed color will appear two to three hours after application. Repeat as necessary every two to three days to maintain color. Hmmph. I have created a new art form in tan lines. The first time, I gave myself my very own pinstriped birthday suit. The second time? Handprint-sized blotches appeared that looked like severe bruising under the fluorescent lights at Cub. I finally figured out a system, though: several applications over an intensive 48-hour period where I remain naked (shades pulled) in my house, standing in front of the TV holding my arms out as each application dries. Repeat every other week when the kids are gone visiting Dad.
While I’m drying, I worry. The thing about summer approaching is that the kids will be out of school and they will require attention. My kids, ages 11 and 14, are in that wondrous age when they are too old to have babysitters, yet too young to be left at home alone for any length of time. Without the stabilizing influence of a regimented school day, the ever-present threat of boredom looms.
Every year at this time, I start the summer with hopeful thoughts of all the free activities the kids and I will partake in. Park festivals where there are giant puppets and dancers! Bi-weekly jaunts to the public library for mind-enriching literature! Evening bike rides to the rose garden where we will breathe deep the perfume of night-blooming varieties. Homemade sandwiches enjoyed while listening to street musicians busking for change. In none of these scenarios do I imagine unlimited-ride wristbands, or steady visits to Taco Bell. I don’t envision children who are forced to spend an extra 10 hours a day in close proximity renegotiating the terms of their relationship with purple-nurples and hurts-donits. I don’t think of rainy days and the struggle for control over the TV clicker. No, I dream of 10,000 lakes, and a suit bottom that never rides up.
Colleen Kruse is a Twin Cities actress and comedian. Email her: mscolleenkruse@hotmail.com
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