Turning 40 used to exempt you from serious bathing suit scrutiny. But that’s changed. Suddenly, there’s Valerie Bertinelli
There's a photo of me from when I was about two years old at the beach. I'm sitting in shallow water with a bucket and shovel, my mouth open in a scream of abandonment and glee. Every time I look at this picture, what strikes me is the total lack of self-consciousness. I know I wasn't sitting there thinking: "Is this suit riding up my butt?" or grimacing about the excess belly fat that made a two-piece too embarrassing to trod out in public. Except for a few short-lived moments, it was probably the only time I actually loved parading around in a bathing suit.
That photo flashed back to me earlier in the week when I caught a report on 83-year-old actress Cloris Leachman modeling swimwear. Cloris, you're my hero. Unapologetically fleshy and admitting to the fact that you haven't danced in 60 years and are a "bag of noodles," you made me feel instantly reassured that tankinis are the salvation of every post-menopausal woman.
Since my kitchen window looks out over the pool at my condo complex, I'm constantly dogged by the bathing suit issue. I have two versions in my drawer: the "ruching does wonders to hide less than firm abs" version and the "color panels make you look slimmer," version. Pulling them out each year has become a little like opening a Secret Santa gift: I never know if I'm going to be relieved or too mortified for words. Either way, I'm grateful that my eyesight isn't what it used to be. Seeing myself in swimwear is less daunting through blurry vision.
It used to be that turning 40 exempted you from serious bathing suit scrunity. No one was ogling our mothers at the beach, that I can recall. But that's changed. Suddenly, there's Valerie Bertinelli. Binging on jalapeno poppers one minute, prancing around the pool in a two-piece the next. I love that Bertinelli found a way to deal with the demise of her marriage to Eddie Van Halen in a healthy way. But once the bikini came out, so did my hives. Instead of kicking back with a high calorie pina colada--which I feel I've more than earned, by the way--the pressure's on to strut out a Baywatch-girl body. From what I've read, all it took was a grueling schedule of work-outs with a personal trainer and 1,200 calories a day. That's, what, three heads of lettuce? I can't imagine wanting to bare my navel that badly.
