The Day My Bikini Died

I had no idea a piece of clothing could end up representing a huge part of my life. Bathing suits are an odd fashion piece, you own a few but you only really wear the one you feel the most comfortable in, though not necessarily look your best in. They tend to be ones that didn’t cost as much as the designer, new technology styles, but do the job just fine. My orange striped biking sits low in the front but covers enough on the rear. The triangle top is flattering but doesn’t disguise my small bust in a false advertising way.

My orange striped bikini was always my go-to swimming costume. For a recent trip I threw it nonchalantly in my bag with the high hopes of dock lounging and lake swimming. As I tied the strings around my neck I heard the unmistakable crackle of dry rot. I ran my fingers along the length of string I felt the hard broken elastic inside the orange stripes. I put it on anyway but it felt the waxed twine around my ribcage and it itched the back of my neck. As much as I would have liked to shed the top altogether I thought better of it and changed into a tank top with the bikini bottom which had now started to sag in the front.

To see that suit die was symbolic. It was the end of an era. I sat on the boat dock up north and twisted back to look at the label. I have bikinis from all over the world, designer ones from Miami and sexy booty-baring ones from Brazil. I actually wasn’t that shocked to discover this one was from Old Navy. I immediately remembered the trip to the Eaton Centre when I bought it along with suits for my girls, then 3 and 6, now 10 and 13.

My orange striped bikini was well documented. Framed pictures around my house show its evolution. One with my daughter in a floatie standing in the shallow water of the Bahamas. Another taken by a friend who is a fashion photographer had me in mid air jumping with a joyful look on my face. She even told me once that she sent it to a down friend to cheer her up. It worked.

The last one, framed and currently residing in my daughter’s room, is of the X and I. It was Christmas and we sat with friends on the beach. It was the last vestige of our happiness before our idyllic world fell apart. We’re grinning and hugging.

Earlier this year I took a trip in the hopes of a reconciliation with him. The bikini came along and made an appearance, which surprisingly, was not documented. It only lives in my memory of what I was wearing when I started to face the idea that our 17-year relationship was over and irreparably changed.

It made sense the orange striped string bikini should die now. My marriage is clearly over. The X has begun another life. I am emerging from a dark transition and redefining my life as I see it. I’ll get a new one this summer.