I Wore A Bikini For The First Time At 50

“You look like a nun on your way to a funeral,” joked my girlfriend, eyeing my beach outfit.

I was not, in fact, either of those things. I was a goth lady trying to have fun in the sun in Mexico, wearing the only thing that made me comfortable: a black one-piece swimdress with a little skirt, a black sarong, black lace shawl, a giant hat and dark sunglasses. I told her my look was boho chic. Truthfully, it was a disguise.

I’ve never had what contemporary Western society calls a “beach body.” I’m round and soft, with skin that spills over elastic bands and thunderous thighs that chafe red in the summer heat. That’s never stopped me from doing things I love that happen to involve swimsuits, like pool parties or lake swims or that trip to Playa del Carmen for my 40th birthday. I’ve just always done them covered up.

I wore the funereal outfit to the sea anyway. As I looked along the Caribbean shore, I realized I was the only woman not wearing a two-piece. I couldn’t remember ever wearing one—not even as a child. “I’ll never know what that feels like,” I thought, tugging my suit lower over my butt before running into the waves.

What does it mean to go outside your comfort zone? As an avid traveller, I know that often happens when you’re somewhere new and exciting. Travel memoirs and viral videos focus on Big Adventures—selling everything from living in a van, to scaling mountains to year-long hikes. But transformation can come in smaller ways. Perhaps even in a smaller swimsuit.

Travel has taught me to be much more comfortable in my body, in general.

In Reykjavík, I had to strip down naked in a communal shower at the public pools, under the watch of a stern staffer tasked with ensuring tourists wash all our bits and bobs before entering the thermal waters. At a traditional hammam in Morocco, I had to laugh as the female attendant mimed pulling down my one-piece swimsuit in front of all the local women so she could douse me with hot water and thoroughly exfoliate my boobs with her kessa glove.

Both times, I flashed back to a high-school trip, when I convinced friends to hold up towels in the communal shower like a Christo art installation so no one would see me naked. But my travel philosophy is to respect local customs—and I love bathing. So I stripped. Nothing bad happened. Nobody cared. And I gained experiences I’ll never forget.

And still, I couldn’t bring myself to wear a bikini.

Then COVID hit. I wasn’t any more laissez faire about my body during lockdowns—in fact, I gained weight that made feeling good in any swimsuit a challenge. But when I booked my first post-pandemic trip to Italy, I embraced our newfound sense of freedom and bought my first-ever two-piece.

What a difference an exposed navel can make. I took the plunge at a rural guesthouse overlooking the verdant hills of Tuscany. It wasn’t being about 7,000 km away from anyone who might recognize me that gave me the courage, although that did help. It was watching the owner of the guesthouse and my travel companion lounging by the turquoise pool in their bikinis. Both exuded the effortless confidence I’d come to appreciate from all the Italian women I encountered, of all ages and body sizes. Total babes. Was the secret to la dolce vita baring more midriff than I ever had? I had to know.

The suit was bright red-and-white gingham, retro, meant to channel Sophia Loren. Not a thong, but not a nun’s habit either.

I walked gingerly past a dozen guests and slipped into the water. It was exhilarating—cooler on my skin, lighter in spirit. It also felt like I was in my underwear in public. But I remembered Iceland and Morocco: nobody cares. So I stopped caring too. I floated, big belly up, fully happy. I was a bikini virgin no more.

Of all the souvenirs you can bring back from travels, the best I’ve found are lessons for a happier life. In Italy, I learned to spend more time contemplating the beauty of cypress trees and less time worrying about who thinks what about the size of my swimsuit, including me. I still rock a one-piece most of the time, and this summer’s cottage experiment with a tiny triangle top showed me that I draw the line at string bikinis. (I’m still me, after all.)  But I do own multiple two-piece swimsuits now and I’ve learned there are times it just makes good sense, whether doing-as-the-locals-do on my travels, or just wanting to feel fearless—and free.