I have a fat ass. This discovery came as some surprise. My ass has never been an issue—unlike my “Buddha” belly—but buying a bathing suit for an early March trip to Miami created an “Up Close and Personal” moment that I would not otherwise have had. Talk about personal discovery!

I had never been to Miami. Well, I’d been there once, for 45 minutes, on my way to Costa Rica. The security at the airport wanted to know if I was a missionary. I think it had something to do with my dorky skirt suit (or maybe it was the hat). The only thing I remember about Miami was that, looking out of the airplane on the way to Costa Rica, Florida looked exactly like it did on the map.

This time, though, Miami was the destination. We were off to Miami for a bit of a break from the Boston weather. This long weekend in Miami had been a mainstay of “the Corps” for a number of years but this would be the first time I’d be able to make it. While I had no delusion of looking as good as, um, those co-eds on “Wild On…Spring Break” that my beloved insists we watch, my intention was to look good in a bathing suit. What “good” meant clearly was pejorative.

I cannot look good in a bathing suit. Perhaps I could have looked good about 20 years ago, when I was 21, but I was rather into long Victorian dresses then, and probably did not own a bathing suit. Parts of me look good in a bathing suit, but all of me does not. All things being equal, I look better wearing nothing than wearing a bathing suit, but since the idea of going “au natural” in front of anyone but my mother or my beloved was not an idea I’d ever had, I was going to have to find something to wear.

My ass, as I said, came as a surprise. Most of my career(s) involved sitting in front of a computer, so perhaps I had fallen victim to that “middle-aged spread” I’d read about. But I’m not middle-aged, I thought. Oh wait, am I? Crap.

Going bathing suit shopping was a stunning failure. Four hours in one store produced try-ons of 13 suits, none of which were attractive. The one-pieces were too short, causing an unpleasant sensation in my, nether regions. The two-pieces, the tankinis, either did not fit on top or did not fit below. It felt like a physics class, discovering the locations at which flesh can be scrunched up and squished out. While a belly can be sucked in, an ass cannot. And tightening the gluteals merely served to highlight the bumps and puckers that I also did not know I had. I was in a lose-lose situation, and spending upwards of $100 was not going to make it better.

At that point in my travails, I began longing for the old days. No, not for when I was 2 and could run around the back yard in my underpants, but for when modesty reigned. I had read in a doctoral dissertation once that in certain cultures, women were not allowed to show their ankles, because it caused, consternation let us say, amongst the men. So, the women covered their ankles. And wore bells on their shoes. That got the men more all a-tingle (a-jingle?) than the ankles did.

It could be that I am at that age where the desire for modesty stems from knowing that my wares are a little worse for, well, you know. While they might be somewhat worn, they do still appeal to those that have a sense of their worth. But not to others. Not to a stranger in passing. Not in Miami. Not in a bathing suit.

There was no getting around it; I was going to be seen in a bathing suit in Miami. I decided there was nothing I could do about it. So I stopped thinking about it, and went to Miami.

I bought a ‘60’s-style mini-skirt and high-heeled flip-flops in Miami. I drank mojitos, and ate fried yucca. I took the 25 cent bus around South Beach. I bought my mother’s 75th birthday present there. The hotel had a pool, and a hot tub, and was right on the beach. I had a great time. Did I look good in my bathing suit, the musty one I pulled from the back of the closet? I’m not sure. I think I looked alright. I was not grossly unattractive, but I didn’t turn heads. It covered my ass, and if I sucked in my belly, I looked decent. But I didn’t care. The hot tub was fabulous. The cubano sandwiches were fabulous. Hell, even the Post Office was fabulous (but nobody has gotten their postcards yet).

I’m working on being stronger and healthier. It seems that such effort has an effect on fat asses. Who knew?

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