I’ve never done the fatkini at the beach gig, especially not at the image conscious Jersey Shore.
Before we went to the beach we had lunch at my mom’s friend’a house, and her friend narrated my reactions to food. Amaretto cookies appeared on the table and she yelled, “look how wide Mary’s eyes got!” She took out sesame honey cookies and chuckled, “Mary’s reaching for them already!” I didn’t have any. I was afraid there’d be more narration.
As my mom and I took a picture together, her friend asked my mom how such a big girl could be her daughter.
I went in the ocean waist deep, letting the waves crash against me, and a joyous, shirtless, big dude asked me, “Nothing like it, huh?”
There is nothing like it. It’s the freedom men have felt forever, fat or not, to wear as little as possible on top because it’s hot out and the ocean feels great against your skin.
I feel comfortable. My narration for myself is, “Mary looks beautiful and lets her feet dig in the sand for the first time all summer. She is her mother’s daughter with her mother’s laugh and her mother’s big voice.”