Who cares? No matter what I wear, confidence suits me best

While walking the beach in Fort Morgan, Ala., I see young women who are thin and tan. They wear bikinis and an air of self-assurance. Their long hair is pulled back in ponytails or piled on top of their heads with big plastic clips.
I also see middle-aged women, like myself, who are not so thin. Our bodies are covered in sunscreen, and we wear full-coverage, one-piece swimsuits with tummy control. Hats protect our faces from harmful ultraviolet rays. But we, too, seem confident; propelled down the shoreline by beauty of another sort.
When I was young enough to care, and possibly had the hips for it, I didn’t dare put on a skimpy two-piece for one main reason: I didn’t think I had the body to wear one. Surely I didn’t deserve to frolic poolside with the cheerleaders or stroll the beach alongside the beautiful girls who had earned their day in the sun through genetics or athletics or some wave of a magic wand that had passed over me without so much as a flick of blonde hair or big bosoms fairy dust. 
I didn’t begrudge the other girls their attractiveness, not much anyway, but covet their feminine mettle I most certainly did. Pictures from my adolescent and college days show that I was of average size, a weight I’d be pleased with, and one I feel certain my cardiologist would weep for joy over should he see such evidence.
Today, though, now that I am old enough to have the guts to wear a bikini, even though I most certainly do not possess the hips for such, I realize there is no one to impress but myself. My, oh my, how much time I have wasted in my day worrying about what other people thought of my appearance. 
I remember feeling both relieved and a bit offended when it finally hit me: most folks aren’t paying attention. People are too caught up in their own worlds — or saving the rainforest — to give a hoot about whether I really look good in magenta or should or shouldn’t don vertical stripes.
My husband, Precious, purports to love me just as I am, and when we hit the beach I find myself most comfortable in elastic-waist shorts and a T-shirt. When I feel like throwing caution to the wind on these trips, I don’t wear a bra as I hunt for seashells along the shoreline. Again, no one seems to notice, although I would prefer it if you didn’t mention this indiscretion to my mother, who still asks every time we talk if I’m wearing a slip and if I remembered to comb my hair.
It could be, of course, that the bronzed 20-somethings mock me uproariously after passing me on the beach, but the true beauty of the situation is this: I no longer care. Plus, my hearing’s going, so I don’t catch most of what is said anyway. Cloaking myself in such freedom, I suspect, is every bit as liberating as donning a thong from Victoria’s Secret. And I’m certain it looks good with everything in my closet.


Beauty standards and fashion trends will always try to tell us how we should look like or what clothes to wear. Despite all these, women and men alike prefer to set up their on fashion style. In terms of beauty products, the anastrozole for men is on high demand these days. Age is just a number, but once in a while we do feel like improving our looks.

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