Cozzie Shopping

I am a woman of a certain age and the body is heading south. The muscles have disappeared,
but I am genetically blessed in other ways – not too many misplaced lumps and bumps and a normal weight. My skin is deathly pale. I loathed it as a freckly teenager growing up in a beachside suburb. But I have survived the brutal taunts from long ago and now I am at peace with my complexion.

I conclude that I need a cover up kind of cozzie. The retail wisdom of my first born echoes: never shop with a definite item in mind because you will never find it.

And so I reluctantly enter a most scary place: an iconic swimsuit shop close to home. Paradise for sun loving local beach babes and cash wielding tourists. A torture chamber for me.

As the third born disappears behind the curtain with an armful of gorgeous new season bikinis, I approach the saleswoman. I am nervous.

“Do you have any one piece costumes with thick straps and a boy leg?” I want to look like Cecile de France in that lovely French wartime film: sun kissed, toned body, clad in a black one piece with cross over straps and a low leg.

“No. And you won’t find any because they are not fashionable.”

As third born decides which bikini, because they all look fabulous, I shrivel.

Home to ponder my options over a pot of tea. I could buy that spotty retro number I found last week, but the “skirt” covering the crotch is simply too confronting. Visions of my nan, I decide that I am not ready to go there yet. I could have one made. I have the name of a local supplier. I have heard her fabrics are stunning and that she is expensive but worth it. I could trawl the net. A modern woman. A global consumer.

It takes less than an hour to find a site, five minutes to measure myself and decide on a size and a moment to pay. A week later my parcel arrives. It fits. It is divine. And it is reasonably priced because I bought it just before the Aussie dollar headed south, like me.

I stand in front of a long mirror and smile. The thick straps, the gently contoured vertical stitching designed to highlight my supported bust, nip in my waist and graciously define my hips. The fabulous boy leg style means I do not have to worry about my bikini line. I loath waxing as much as fake tanning! I am curvy. I am Marilyn, but smaller, and definitely not blond. Actually as I gaze down to those thighs, I am my mother. I turn around, and there is her bottom.

It is rare for a cozzie-clad woman of a certain age to look in the mirror and feel a warm glow. I think of the hours I might have spent driving around town and trudging through shopping centres. Thanks internet. Thanks mum.