Dare to Bare in Bondi
As we get older, part of our denial that we are aging is to disguise parts of our body indicative of the process. Whether we cover the dewlaps under our arms or take to wearing turtlenecks in the manner of actor Diane Keaton, most of us are driven by pride and fear of condemnation by others, spectres riding in gruesome tandem in our heads. We hope that the world will regard us as growing old gracefully and we somehow meet some pre-determined ideal of what is acceptable ageing. Who determines this ideal though? The culture of the society we subscribe to or ourselves?
We have all come across women whose dress sense has been captured in a time warp. A bit sad we might think, “mutton dressed as lamb “ we might comment. Channeling your inner Stevie Knicks or sporting leg warmers with fluorescent gym gear are looks that are not only dated, they are not particularly flattering to women of any age. However if the wearers are comfortable, so what? While I am particularly coy about showing my legs and stomach, (testimony to my having borne three whopping sons), such physical evidence of fertility is not seen in Western Society as a badge of honour. It should be however, for we are living longer than ever before. The unlikelihood we would have even survived into what we now consider middle age, (i.e. our fifties and sixties), is reason enough to honour and be proud of our beautiful non-gym, bodies bearing the battle scars life inevitably adorns us with be they stretch marks, sagging boobs or varicose veins.
Just take a look at fertility figures from ancient cultures. No stick figures here, instead these figures with their heavy breasts and rounded bellies embody an ideal of womanhood that was essentially reliant on protection by males, adequate food, surviving childbirth, accidents and disease. Abundance was an ideal, celebrated whether it was in the hunt, the harvest or the form of someone who had the rank and privilege of eating well. Nowadays instead of celebrating that we are living longer than previous generations, we have become obsessed with youthful appearance and in the process have become highly self-critical.
Just prior to Christmas Day, I decided be bold and bare at Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia, the quintessential Aussie beach scene complete with surfers, backpackers, tourists of all ages wearing overall very little. Humidity lay languidly over Sydney with a suffocating intensity. Venturing out in the steamy fog, I embarked on a nostalgic exploration of Tamarama Beach and its environs south of Bondi, where my husband and I had lived as newly weds some forty years ago.
No I didn’t go as far as breaching the surf in a bikini. I ventured out in a sleeveless top with my knotted legs in knee length shorts. Vanity put up a strong case but for the first time in many years practicality triumphed. While this may seem a small matter, it was a first for me to whom personal presentation has always been of high importance. With only a couple of days to Christmas the shopping malls seethed with people too preoccupied with their hangovers, indecisiveness around last minute shopping or the imminent visit of their relations to be critical of a middle-aged woman dressed appropriately for the weather.
So I dared to bare in Bondi and continued to do so throughout the remainder of my holiday. Just this week I wore a dress to work without the complementary pantyhose I usually don. Capri pants have been eschewed for short dresses and my lightly tanned legs sport my varicose veins for the world to see – if the world cares to look, which I doubt. I have been liberated and in the process I remind myself I am alive and well at an age I would never have reached two or three generations ago, especially given our family carries a deadly genetic disease. It is now or never to determine our own ideal and if that is not the ideal of others, so what?
