Proud Of My Frump

“Why do you still order maternity swimsuits?” My husband said eyeballing me as I slipped on the new polka-dotted swimsuit I got on amazon to see if it fit. I just looked quickly down at my body and went through the checklist in my head: it fit ✓, covered my thighs ✓. Perfect, I thought, and then stripped it right off robotically. This bathing suit was a “winner winner chicken dinner,” in my book. Which brought me back to another very important decision in my life– hmm, what should we have for dinner?

“Hello, Yoo-Hoo, Earth to Dani.” The hubs said waving his hands in front of my face. Waking me up from my zombie or more like zombie chicken like trance.

“Because they are more comfortable, a little lose, more flattering.” I answered, swatting his hands away like he was a pesky bee zigzagging around my head. Plus, he was kind of acting like one.

He clearly doesn’t know my checkered history with swimsuits. At least I will now wear one in public. My worst nightmare was to actually have to go to a store and put one on in front of the mirror. Both, terrible nightmarish situations—especially for this self-proclaimed anti-shopper with a poor body image.

It used to go something like this:

Try it on. Look in the mirror: flab, cottage cheese, fat or arms, thighs and stomach respectively. Followed by feelings of sadness and failure.

It would not be legen–wait for it—dary in the words of How I Met Your Mother’s Barney Stinson or “not legendary at all.”

If you don’t get it still here is a simple equation: See-no-evil monkey emoji times twelve, as I would stare in the mirror completely horrified.

Now, I find myself in this not so legendary bathing suit situation every Thursday. My daughter takes swim lessons and obviously an eight month old can’t swim alone, meaning I have to go in with her. Though her instructor informed me she is pretty buoyant, I don’t think I should chance it just yet. So every Thursday we go to swim and I change myself then her into our bathing suits. When I walked out of the locker room our first lesson, to my surprise, I didn’t even think about the fact that I was wearing the dreaded swimsuit. And five months later, I still don’t.

Recovery is the key that unlocked all of my doors clasped tightly together by shame. Recovery has let me live, and thus experience. All of these amazing momentous things happened to me because I am in recovery. There was a trickle down effect of sorts. If I wasn’t in recovery, I couldn’t have a baby: one, because I wouldn’t have let anyone in (so unless I was The Virgin Mary herself that wouldn’t be possible) and two, because I wasn’t healthy enough to conceive. If I didn’t have a baby, I wouldn’t have really understood how amazing my body was and really appreciated it.

So yes, because I am in recovery and my body was able to give me my daughter, wearing a swimsuit has become a non-issue. I hardly think twice about how I look while playing in the pool with her. I see my daughter’s smile, hear her laugh as she “splashy splashes the water,” and that’s all that matters. In that way, thank you recovery for giving me the experiences and perspective to make a swimsuit that—just a swimsuit.

So no, I won’t be the girl rocking the tiny string bikini, thinking I look hot, but that just isn’t me or what I am about at all. Plus, I think some old fashioned modesty goes a long way. So yes, I will be the girl in the one-piece, or comfortable two-piece playing confidently with my daughter, smiling, laughing. And you know what, I don’t care what society says about my frumpy suits; I am happy and have come a long way.

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