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On Sunday, I did not find the beach. On Monday, I was determined
and found one of the suits I had brought fit - an old one. I had no idea
what size I was since the breast reduction surgery so I had packed all
three - three different sizes.
I found the way out to the beach - I asked at the
desk.
I made it to the beach by 9:30. After I figured out
that the pool has stairs you go up and then down. There is also an elevator.
Took a moment.
Down the stairs and there it is - right across the
street. A long stretch - nearly empty - glistening water - big ships on
parade off shore.
I wandered out to walk in the sand with the wind
whipping my unruly hair into knots.
It was too early for other people - the beach was
practically deserted. Not even lifeguards were abroad yet. Just a few
hardy souls and me. An the inevitable seagull.
I strolled barefoot down into the edge of the water,
watching ships and small waves - although I could feel the water suck
at my legs. Wicked undertow. Red flags. I dodge the big waves - they are
not that big but it's a little unnerving when you don't know what is underneath.
(Ron told me later that it drops off quickly - and I can't swim.)
I stoop to examine a few seashells. Tiny ones. Larger
ones are broken or disfigured from pollution. I find a smooth piece of
coral. I revel in the ships on the horizon. Cruise ships move fast, fishing
vessels drift in teams. Rigs sit there. Lovely. Just lovely.
I am reminded of the movie "Shirley Valentine" -
gone to Greece.
I have been the mother. I have been the wife. I have
been the cubicle captive. I have done my share of talking to the walls.
Now I am on the sand, in the sun, water lapping at
my ankles, wind blowing through my hair.
I am Shirley Valentine.
I will be different, all week.
I am reinforced in this as I head back to the hotel.
I decide that I will brave the swim suit shop I have
driven by these past two days. It's on the way.
This is not pleasant.
The suits in my size are mostly old-lady suits and
hung on a wall in the corner in the back- I am not in that mood. They
have skirts and are flowered and I am just not mentally ready to concede
that I am, in fact, old. We all carry images of ourselves 10 years younger,
or so they say.
I tend to think I am still 25. Denial. Works for
me.
I find a purple one-piece and try it. Size 12. Snug
but fine. And I find a pretty blue patterned one - one piece. Lovely.
Looks good on me. I think these are the only two suits in the shop that
fit.
I have a protruding belly from a lack of exercise.
Mirrors in this store are not kind.
Neither are the pretty bathing suits which are mostly
size 4 or 5. Maybe size 8.
This is unfair. Unkind. Upsetting. If my chest was
still big - absolutely nothing would have fit me. And the beach when busy
is covered with overweight older women. Where do they get to shop?
I have just walked the beach in wet sand. I vow to
do it every day possible. Time to get back in charge. Time to get off
the post-op restrictions. Time to exercise. I am almost there. 20 more
pounds. Tone it up. I will be fine. To hell with the mirrors.
I find a white terry topper (a pull-over short shift)
to complete my mild shopping spree. I add it to the two suits. I am proud
of myself.
I strut back to the hotel.
I am Shirley Valentine with a pocket full of seashells.
I am ready for the week.
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