Today I met a couple of girlfriends for a leisurely late breakfast; I hesitate to use the word brunch because that word implies Mimosas and Bloody Marys, pots of hot coffee and the fact that it’s the weekend.

This was simply an egg, toast and tofu rice bowl breakfast, sans the alcohol.

In other words, a Monday.

We hadn’t seen each other for a couple of weeks, so there were lots of hugs, laughter, stories, and sharing of pictures on our smart-phones.

One of my friends showed us a picture of the cute rainbow-colored, teeny-tiny little bikini that she’d just had the courage to purchase over the weekend. She is a stunning, close to fifty-year-old who in my humble opinion should be wearing her bikini to the Post Office and Trader Joes—but this was a big step for her.

No more modest little one piece for HER winter vacation.
She’s gonna rock a bikini, loud and proud. I applaud her for that.

Anyhow, my friend had noticed on her last tropical holiday that scores of, for lack of a better word, average women, with their luscious,voluminous bellies and boobies, and their jiggly thighs, were walking up and down the beach with heads held high. Like they were freaking Heidi Klum. And after she got over the initial shock she got to thinking: Hey, why the hell not?

Why not indeed!

I love what she said next. I think I’m going to embroider it on a pillow.

“If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”


After we all got done laughing our asses off, my other friend told us the story of her holiday in Italy a few years back with her friend Luigi. They were in some steamy southern Italian town and decided to go to the local beach.

Because it was Italy and you can’t be held accountable for anything you say, eat or do there, she was wearing a bikini instead of her usual flannel one piece that comes with its own tent/cover-up.

Somehow, she and Luigi found themselves together on a raft, (this part of the story that gets murky. There must be one hell of a reason behind this because my friend is not a “share a raft” kinda gal). Anyhow, there they were, paddling around in the warm, deep blue, Mediterranean Sea when Luigi suggests that they paddle over to a small island nearby to visit a couple of his friends on the beach. (What?)

As they approach, one of the women, as my friend tells it, literally unfolds herself, slowly moving from seated to standing on her towel.

Luigi, Mio caro!” she exclaims, waving her hands in the air. She then slinks toward the shore to greet Luigi in a warm embrace. (Okay, now I get it.)

Luigi is 5’3″.

The woman is 6′ tall and shaped like a ripe pear; with large heaving breasts and curvaceous round hips—all the color of mahogany. And on a side note—she is topless.

But now my girlfriends and I are all doubled over with laughter as our friend recounted how Luigi’s face was buried in this woman’s smoldering Italian cleavage for the duration of the embrace and no one even flinched. As a matter of fact, all the woman were older, voluptuous, tan and topless.

Mama Mia!

The point being—Not a body issue in the bunch!

In that moment my friend was thrilled she wasn’t all covered up in her chastity inducing, Grandma Moses one-piece swimsuit.

OMG! That’s SO Italian! Actually, that’s SO European. What’s OUR Yankee doodle problem?

If we’re over a certain age, or don’t have the bodies of supermodels, why can’t we have the courage to flaunt what God gave us and rock that bikini?

Didn’t the paparazzi capture this picture of Dame Helen Mirren looking fucking awesome in a red bikini a few years back? Isn’t she over sixty? Fuck! I worship her for that.

We don’t have to walk around, with boobs a flyin’ like those gutsy and gorgeous Italians, but a tad more body confidence couldn’t hurt. I say let’s all get over ourselves, and buy bikini’s, or a least something flattering that plays up our good assets.

Listen, when you look back at pictures of your twenty-year-old self, you were HOT!  We all were but we thought otherwise at the time.

We’re never satisfied, so let’s love and embrace what we have.

I’m not certain I’ll be able to comply. I can’t be expected to hold in my stomach for more than half-hour increments without passing out and if I eat more than one grape, it’s impossible altogether.

But….now I have my new motto:

If people don’t like me in my bikini, they don’t have to buy my calendar.”

Too much?


Who Says We Can’t Wear Bikinis Over 50? was last modified: by

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