Which got me to thinking... are seductively sensible swimsuits finally making a comeback? I was walking through the hipster section of my neighbourhood the other day... it's actually right next to the business district (we don't have a lot neighbourhood in Newcastle). Anyway, I noticed that Carla's swimsuit shop sported fetching vintage looks in both her windows, something akin to this:
Thanks Amy at wolfwhistle.org
...with slightly less ruffles. It prompted me to wonder: are one-pieces making a comeback? Onesies and jumpsuits have been all over everywhere for a while now, but maybe the tyrannous reign of bikinis has also finally ended? BIKINI KILL!!
Thanks lastfm.com
Finally we can, in good fashion conscience, dress to actually swim in waves rather than loll about on the sand like lame teenagers from some sort of 1970s hell. "Puberty Blues", I'm looking at you:
Thanks 82liddiard
As someone who's grown up in a coastal town with a strong beach culture, I speak with authority when I say that NO BIKINI EVER in the history of humankind has successfully withstood a longish swim in the ocean. Waves and triangles-secured-by-string do not mix! At least not with a PG rating. What kind of sex-addled pervert thought bikinis would help swimming anyway? I get so much nip slip it's nuts. After about 5 decent waves I have the choice of either focusing the majority of my swim time on securing the modesty of my outfit, or simply taking the whole thing off and call it a - ahem - wash.
I recently found a solution in the form of a sort of 'bikini-onesie' I bought in Marrickville:
It still shows a bunch of skin and makes my little a-cups look like, well squashed a-cups but in a good way I think. The illusion of boobs. Most importantly, the halter neck means i can dive under wave after wave and forget everything except the rush of saltwater, the drumbeat of the hot Summer sun and the sweet freedom of not thinking about what I look like.
Thanks pinterest.com
You spill the sugar when you lift the spoon. My father had filled an old apothecary jar with what he called "sea glass," bits of old bottles rounded and textured by the sea, so abundant on beaches. There is no solitude. It buries itself in veracity. It is as if one splashed in the water lost by one's tears. My mother had climbed into the garbage can in order to stamp down the accumulated trash, but the can was knocked off balance, and when she fell she broke her arm. She could only give a little shrug. The family had little money but plenty of food. At the circus only the elephants were greater than anything I could have imagined. The egg of Columbus, landscape and grammar. She wanted one where the playground was dirt, with grass, shaded by a tree, from which would hang a rubber tire as a swing, and when she found it she sent me. These creatures are compound and nothing they do should surprise us. I don't mind, or I won't mind, where the verb "to care" might multiply. The pilot of the little airplane had forgotten to notify the airport of his approach, so that when the lights of the plane in the night were first spotted, the air raid sirens went off, and the entire city on that coast went dark. He was taking a drink of water and the light was growing dim. My mother stood at the window watching the only lights that were visible, circling over the darkened city in search of the hidden airport. Unhappily, time seems more normative than place. Whether breathing or holding the breath, it was the same thing, driving through the tunnel from one sun to the next under a hot brown hill. She sunned the baby for sixty seconds, leaving him naked except for a blue cotton sunbonnet. At night, to close off the windows from view of the street, my grandmother pulled down the window shades, never loosening the curtains, a gauze starched too stiff to hang properly down. I sat on the windowsill singing sunny lunny teena, ding-dang-dong. Out there is an aging magician who needs a tray of ice in order to turn his bristling breath into steam. He broke the radio silence. Why would anyone find astrology interesting when it is possible to learn about astronomy. What one passes in the Plymouth. It is the wind slamming the doors. All that is nearly incommunicable to my friends. Velocity and throat verisimilitude. Were we seeing a pattern or merely an appearance of small white sailboats on the bay, floating at such a distance from the hill that they appeared to be making no progress. And for once to a country that did not speak another language. To follow the progress of ideas, or that particular line of reasoning, so full of surprises and unexpected correlations, was somehow to take a vacation. Still, you had to wonder where they had gone, since you could speak of reappearance. A blue room is always dark. Everything on the boardwalk was shooting toward the sky. It was not specific to any year, but very early. A German goldsmith covered a bit of metal with cloth in the 14th century and gave mankind its first button. It was hard to know this as politics, because it plays like the work of one person, but nothing is isolated in history--certain humans are situations. Are your fingers in the margin. Their random procedures make monuments to fate. There is something still surprising when the green emerges. The blue fox has ducked its head. The front rhyme of harmless with harmony. Where is my honey running. You cannot linger "on the lamb." You cannot determine the nature of progress until you assemble all of the relatives.
