For Carey and Terry,
who took me to the boardwalk
and taught me about the beach
June
Difficult questions come in all shapes and sizes. They can be big and philosophical, like “What’s the meaning of life?” Or small and personal, like “How do you know if you’re really in love?” They can even be evil (Yes, I’m talking about you, Mrs. Perkins), like “For the quadratic equation where the equation has only one solution, what’s the value of C?” But of all the world’s questions there is one that stands alone as the single most difficult to answer.
“Does this bathing suit make me look fat?”
If you’ve ever been asked, then you know what I’m talking about. It’s not like you can just say, “No, but your butt kinda does.” And it’s not like you can say, “Oh no, it looks great. You should definitely wear that on the beach, where every guy you know will see you.” Instead you have to find that delicate place between honesty and kindness.
I know this because I hear the question all the time. I work weekends and summers at Surf Sisters, a surf shop in Pearl Beach, Florida, where women asking you how they look in all varieties of swimwear kind of comes with the turf. (Or as my father would say, it “comes with the surf,” because, you know, dads.)
It’s been my experience that a great many of those who ask the question already know the answer. This group includes the girls with the hot bodies who only ask because they want to hear someone say how great they look. My response to them is usually just to shrug and answer, “It doesn’t make you look fat, but it is kind of strange for your torso.” The proximity of the words “strange” and “torso” in the same sentence usually keeps them from asking again.
Most girls, however, ask because while they know a swimsuit doesn’t look right, they’re not exactly sure why. That’s the case with the girl who’s asking me right now. All she wants is to look her best and to feel good about herself. Unfortunately, the bikini she’s trying on is preventing that from happening. My first step is to help her get rid of it for reasons that have nothing to do with her.
“I think it looks good on you,” I answer. “But I don’t love what happens with that particular swimsuit when it gets wet. It loses its shape and it starts to look dingy.”
“Really?” she says. “That’s not good.”
I sense that she’s relieved to have an excuse to get rid of it, so I decide to wade deeper into the waters of truthfulness. “And, to be honest, it doesn’t seem like you feel very comfortable in it.”
She looks at me and then she looks at herself in the mirror and shakes her head. “No, I don’t, do I? I’m no good at finding the right suit.”
“Luckily, I can help you with that,” I say. “But I need to know what you’re looking for, and I need to know how you see yourself. Are you a shark or a dolphin?”
She cocks her head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Sharks are sleek and deadly. They’re man-eaters.”
“And dolphins?”
“They’re more . . . playful and intelligent.”
She thinks it over for a moment and smiles. “Well, I probably wish I was more of a shark, but . . . I’m a total dolphin.”
“So am I. You know, in the ocean, if a shark and a dolphin fight, the dolphin always wins.”
“Maybe, but on land it usually goes the other way.”
We both laugh, and I can tell that I like her.
“Let’s see what we can do about that,” I say. “I think we’ve got a couple styles that just might help a dolphin out.”
Fifteen minutes later, when I’m ringing her up at the register, she is happy and confident. I know it sounds hokey, but this is what I love about Surf Sisters. Unlike most shops, where girls have to be bikini babes or they’re out of luck, this one has always been owned and operated by women. And while we have plenty of male customers, we’ve always lived by the slogan, “Where the waves meet the curves.”
At the moment it also happens to be where the waves meet the pouring rain. That’s why, when my girl leaves with not one but two new and empowering swimsuits, the in-store population of employees outnumbers customers three to two. And, since both customers seem more interested in waiting out the storm than in buying anything, I’m free to turn my attention to the always entertaining Nicole and Sophie Show.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Nicole says as they expertly fold and stack a new display of T-shirts. “Absolutely. No. Idea.”
In addition to being my coworkers, Nicole and Sophie have been my best friends for as long as I can remember. At first glance they seem like polar opposites. Nicole is a blue-eyed blonde who stands six feet tall, most of which is arms and legs. This comes in handy as heck on the volleyball court but makes her self-conscious when it comes to boys. Sophie, meanwhile, is petite and fiery. She’s half Italian, half Cuban, all confidence.
Judging by Nic’s signature blend of outrage and indignation, Sophie must be offering unsolicited opinions in regard to her terminal crush on the oh-so-cute but always-out-of-reach Cody Bell.
“There was a time when it was an embarrassing but still technically acceptable infatuation,” Sophie explains. “But that was back around ninth-grade band camp. It has since gone through various stages of awkward, and I’m afraid can now only be described as intervention-worthy stalking.”
Although I’ve witnessed many versions of this exact conversation over the years, this is the first time I’ve seen it in a while. That’s because Sophie just got back from her freshman year at college. Watching them now is like seeing the season premiere of a favorite television show. Except without the microwave popcorn.
“Stalking?” Nicole replies. “Do you know how absurd that sounds?”
“No, but I do know how absurd it looks,” Sophie retorts. “You go wherever he goes, but you never talk to him. Or if you do talk to him, it’s never about anything real, like the fact that you’re into him.”
“Where are you even getting your information?” Nicole demands. “You’ve been two hundred miles away. For all you know, Cody and I had a mad, passionate relationship while you were away at Florida State.”
Sophie turns to me and rolls her eyes. “Izzy, were there any mad, passionate developments in the Nicole and Cody saga while I was in Tallahassee? Did they become a supercouple? Did the celebrity press start referring to them as ‘Nicody’?”
I’m not about to lie and say that there were new developments, but I also won’t throw Nicole under the bus and admit that the situation has actually gotten a little worse. Instead, I take the coward’s way out.
“I’m Switzerland,” I say. “Totally neutral and all about the chocolate.”
“Your courage is inspiring,” mocks Sophie before directing the question back at Nicole. “Then you tell me. Did you have a mad, passionate relationship with Cody this year?”
“No,” Nicole admits after some hesitation. “I was just pointing out that you weren’t here, so you have no way of knowing what did or did not happen.”
“So you’re saying you did not follow him around?”
“Cody and I have some similar interests and are therefore occasionally in the same general vicinity. But that doesn’t mean that I follow him around or that it’s developed into . . . whatever it was that you called it.”