The Girth of Venus

In the summer months in Virginia Beach, thousands of people prance around by the ocean, clad in skimpy bathing suits. It's ironic, because most of us would never answer the door of our homes in our underwear, or go to the grocery store half naked. And yet, there some of us are, in front of God and creation, ordering a Whopper at Burger King, dressed in -- I interrupt this column to bring you a quote from the mouth of babes, or, that is, one babe, my boy Ranin -- as I was saying, dressed in -- "Mommy, is that lady wearing a bra?"

And what about thong bikinis? (My son Tymon calls them "wedgie bikinis".) As a stand-up comic I once saw said, "What's the point of those things? I'm always trying to get stuff out of there!" They look so uncomfortable, yet historically, they're one of the earliest clothing designs, dating back to somewhere between the first fig leaf and the Flintstones.

Recreational swimming has been accepted in the western world only during the last hundred years or so. Before that, swimming was more of a litmus test. Suspected witches were hurled into a nearby frog pond for a quick swimming test. Suspects who failed and drowned were proclaimed innocent! Suspects who passed were fished out and burned at the stake (or as they used to say in old westerns, hung by the neck until dead.) Fortunately, those days have passed. Otherwise, what would have become of Esther Williams or Janet Evans? Synchronized swimmers would have been synchronically barbecued. Quick, fetch the torches!

Swimwear has evolved along with the popularity of swimming. Back in the days of Huck Finn, young boys dove into the water hole in their birthday suits, but that option was out of the question for proper gentlemen and ladies. The first bathing suits were almost the same as street clothes. Many bathers were drowned in the undertow with the weight of them. Sleeker designs became a matter of life and death. Around the time of World War I, cute little knee length outfits were introduced. Personally, I wish that type was still "IN". I'd be out there, paddling around alá Clara Bow.

I just got a bathing suit that sort of laces up the back and ties in a cute little bow. My first experience with it revealed its inherent treachery. I was frolicing in the waves, out in the ocean up to my waist or thereabouts. Peter was taking pictures of the kids on their little boogie boards and everyone was waving and smiling. I was suddenly slammed by an especially powerful wave. After I recovered my breath and my eyesight, I saw my husband's aghast face signalling to me that something had gone askew. I soon realized that I was suddenly dressed in a way rumored to be common among women in ancient Greece.

Turning to face the open sea, I tucked my straying anatomy back into the bathing suit and pretended to study the far horizon for schools of dolphins, pirate ships, Jaws, anything, until panic and embarassment abated. The undertow was looking mighty attractive. Regaining my dignity after a lengthy study, I casually strolled back to our blanket as if to say, "I meant to do that." (Tighten those laces, Brown!)

On another recent trip to the beach, we went to a remote stretch inhabited by fiddler crabs. They hide inside little holes near the water's edge. Our family sat down in a cluster and quietly watched them. They look like convicts tunneling out of prison. At first there's no sign of life, but after a moment, a little shovelful of sand flies from a hole. Then two little periscope eyes come peering up over the edge. If no movement is detected, they tentatively sidle down to the water, and then, overcome with paranoia, make a mad dash back to the hole. Their little sideways gait is quite comical. I bet they adopted this weird personality quirk because they don't want to be seen in their bathing suits either.

In the future I'm going to make like the little crab. I'm going to dig a little hole and hide in it, and then when nobody's looking I'm going to run like blazes and dive in the water. And I won't come out 'til it gets dark.