I used to be a swimmer; I’d spend my summers hanging from the pool’s edge, wolfing Laffy Taffy, rescuing frogs, and slowly frying on a worn Snoopy beach towel on the adjacent, boiling tennis courts. I was ten. Then puberty hit and it all fell apart. Boobs, hips and height washed over me, and my body felt unfamiliar and not my own.
While talking with my friend Jaime, reflecting on New York City beaches, I realized that I haven’t even put on a swimsuit for three years. Three years! And I haven’t even been to any of those beaches! Not the mythical, taco laden Rockaways, the nudist-friendly dunes of Fort Tilden or any of the other sandy entrances to the Atlantic. It’s a shame, really. I miss swimming, and I’ve never even overcome my personal equator (waistline) while standing at the water’s edge.
Reflecting on these historic bathing suits — modeled during the late ’30s in a retrospective of past swimsuits (lots of stockings and pantaloons) and future, imaginary renditions — I’m reminded that I shouldn’t view the beach as a vaguely threatening expanse filled with broken bottles and judgment; I should revel in the fact that I don’t have to wear pantaloons! Or a bikini! And that bathing suits are not, in fact, inherently scary. If anything, they’re playful and fun and maybe even a treat. How often can you feel so unencumbered and float, weightless, in a massive sea?
I’ll take one of the bathing suits with a cape, please. Body confidence: in for 2011.
[Images via New York Public Library Archives]

























































































