How I Stopped Worrying About My Bikini Body and Learned to Love Summer
I have never loved summer. Growing up as a chubby teen bookworm with an as-yet-undiagnosed sun allergy, I dreaded it. It’s a time when nerds will invariably be forced into outdoor physical activity, summer camp and other allegedly halcyon seasonal staples we are just not very good at. I just wanted to hang out in the shade, reading or chatting to other dorks who, like me, were easily winded and didn’t like mosquitos.
Back then, summers made me feel deficient: I never had enough enthusiasm, speed, energy or sunscreen. Counselors and parents would offer their well-meaning but ultimately, to me, horrifying encouragement from the side of the pool or on the trail, or wherever else: “Come on, it’s fun!” “You’re doing great!” Or, worst: “Good try!” And I did, eventually, kind of try. I got used to carrying SPF65 everywhere I went and figured out the kind of gentle camp activities I could get behind: canoeing, archery, arts and crafts. I felt like an interplanetary explorer, boldly going where to be honest everyone else already had been and was enjoying themselves. Like a chubby Neil Armstrong in Northern Getaway, I was exploring summer.
But as our bodies changed and their meanings changed with them, so did the meaning of the season. All of a sudden I wasn’t lacking; I had too much. Too much stomach, too much leg hair, too much ass. The enthusiastic (if demoralizing) screams of well-meaning camp counselors encouraging me to be more, do more, try more were replaced with a more insidious whisper: be less, wear less, take up less space. I was doing it all wrong again, for entirely different reasons.
I found myself warned earlier and earlier every year: it was coming. “Bikini Season.” The time to start working—hard—for my “beach body.” May and June brought with them the incessant hum of magazines, friends, and blogs suggesting ways to achieve the kind of body that would allow me access to the beach, to the summer, to fun.
Because that’s the implication of the term “beach body” (or “bikini body,” “summer body,” or any of its many variants): unless you’ve adopted the right regimen of squats, pull ups, and crunches, eaten the right light salads with grilled chicken, and called your aesthetician to reunite after the winter’s absence, you don’t reaaaally get to be a part of it. You’re not wanted, on the beach or anywhere else. Not until September, at least. Don’t make other people look at that. Where’s your tan? Your waxed legs? Your six pack?
This is, of course, patently ridiculous. But at 16 I was a few years away from figuring that out. Instead, I tried to do what I’d done in years previous: adapt to the conditions of summer. I wore shorts, but they were Bermuda length (honestly, I know). I bought a two-piece bathing suit—a tankini (#why). I spent my high school summers trying different weird weight loss plans, running around in bastardized versions of the hot weather attire I wanted to be wearing: short shorts, tiny dresses, bikinis. I layered heavily: light cardigans over T-shirts over bathing suits, finally swaddled in a thick coating of insecurity.
When late puberty and some low-level disordered eating conspired to deliver upon me a “bikini body” (flat stomach, pert 18 year old breasts, the closest thing I have ever had to a tan) for one summer, I could not believe how little was different. I had eaten (or not eaten) all the right salads, done all the right exercises. I deserved this summer, these clothes, this lie.
And that’s when I realized it was a lie. No one deserves summer more than anyone else. Short shorts don’t belong to anyone, neither does the beach. At 26, I don’t look like I did that summer at 18. But most importantly, I don’t feel that way, either. I’m not adapting my summer plans to work around a body I’ve been told implicitly and explicitly is wrong for summer. It’s just fine for any old season, and anyway it’s the only one I have.
These days I enjoy the summer. I’ve come around on outdoor sports, still dutifully tote SPF65, and even learned to live with mosquitoes. I would play water polo if you asked nicely and it was for charity or something so I felt kind of obligated. But mostly, I wear whatever the hell I want. I own short shorts, tiny string bikinis, and crop tops, but also more structured one pieces, caftans, and cropped jeans. I wear what I feel like wearing, sometimes covered up and sometimes practically naked. I will never own another tankini. It feels good to get your limbs out in the heat, to bike in a dress and let it flow behind you. People can see your bathing suit under there and your cellulite too and that’s fine. Plus I found this one amazing trick to finally getting a beach body: go to the beach. I’ll see you there.
![](http://www.facebook.com/sharer.php?u=https://fashionmagazine.com/style/bikini-body/&title=How I Stopped Worrying About My Bikini Body and Learned to Love Summer&picture=https://fashionmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/Chubby-Summer.jpg&description=
I have never loved summer. Growing up as a chubby teen bookworm with an as-yet-undiagnosed sun allergy, I dreaded it. It’s a time when nerds will invariably be forced into outdoor physical activity, summer camp and other allegedly halcyon seasonal staples we are just not very good at. I just wanted to hang out in the shade, reading or chatting to other dorks who, like me, were easily winded and didn't like mosquitos.
Back then, summers made me feel deficient: I never had enough enthusiasm, speed, energy or sunscreen. Counselors and parents would offer their well-meaning but ultimately, to me, horrifying encouragement from the side of the pool or on the trail, or wherever else: “Come on, it’s fun!" "You're doing great!" Or, worst: "Good try!" And I did, eventually, kind of try. I got used to carrying SPF65 everywhere I went and figured out the kind of gentle camp activities I could get behind: canoeing, archery, arts and crafts. I felt like an interplanetary explorer, boldly going where to be honest everyone else already had been and was enjoying themselves. Like a chubby Neil Armstrong in Northern Getaway, I was exploring summer.
But as our bodies changed and their meanings changed with them, so did the meaning of the season. All of a sudden I wasn’t lacking; I had too much. Too much stomach, too much leg hair, too much ass. The enthusiastic (if demoralizing) screams of well-meaning camp counselors encouraging me to be more, do more, try more were replaced with a more insidious whisper: be less, wear less, take up less space. I was doing it all wrong again, for entirely different reasons.
I found myself warned earlier and earlier every year: it was coming. "Bikini Season." The time to start working—hard—for my "beach body." May and June brought with them the incessant hum of magazines, friends, and blogs suggesting ways to achieve the kind of body that would allow me access to the beach, to the summer, to fun.
Because that's the implication of the term "beach body" (or "bikini body," "summer body," or any of its many variants): unless you've adopted the right regimen of squats, pull ups, and crunches, eaten the right light salads with grilled chicken, and called your aesthetician to reunite after the winter's absence, you don't reaaaally get to be a part of it. You're not wanted, on the beach or anywhere else. Not until September, at least. Don't make other people look at that. Where's your tan? Your waxed legs? Your six pack?
This is, of course, patently ridiculous. But at 16 I was a few years away from figuring that out. Instead, I tried to do what I'd done in years previous: adapt to the conditions of summer. I wore shorts, but they were Bermuda length (honestly, I know). I bought a two-piece bathing suit—a tankini (#why). I spent my high school summers trying different weird weight loss plans, running around in bastardized versions of the hot weather attire I wanted to be wearing: short shorts, tiny dresses, bikinis. I layered heavily: light cardigans over T-shirts over bathing suits, finally swaddled in a thick coating of insecurity.
When late puberty and some low-level disordered eating conspired to deliver upon me a "bikini body" (flat stomach, pert 18 year old breasts, the closest thing I have ever had to a tan) for one summer, I could not believe how little was different. I had eaten (or not eaten) all the right salads, done all the right exercises. I deserved this summer, these clothes, this lie.
And that's when I realized it was a lie. No one deserves summer more than anyone else. Short shorts don't belong to anyone, neither does the beach. At 26, I don't look like I did that summer at 18. But most importantly, I don't feel that way, either. I'm not adapting my summer plans to work around a body I've been told implicitly and explicitly is wrong for summer. It's just fine for any old season, and anyway it's the only one I have.
These days I enjoy the summer. I've come around on outdoor sports, still dutifully tote SPF65, and even learned to live with mosquitoes. I would play water polo if you asked nicely and it was for charity or something so I felt kind of obligated. But mostly, I wear whatever the hell I want. I own short shorts, tiny string bikinis, and crop tops, but also more structured one pieces, caftans, and cropped jeans. I wear what I feel like wearing, sometimes covered up and sometimes practically naked. I will never own another tankini. It feels good to get your limbs out in the heat, to bike in a dress and let it flow behind you. People can see your bathing suit under there and your cellulite too and that's fine. Plus I found this one amazing trick to finally getting a beach body: go to the beach. I'll see you there.){kind=link}