TOMORROW afternoon I will be stripping off.
And, slipping into an itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini. Maybe the black one. Possibly the red one.
But either way, I will be popping it on and hot footing it to the nearest beach or pool.
I haven’t been abroad for about four years so I am ready for the sunshine and the waves, the sand and the breeze, the relaxation and the switching off.
But it’s been a looong time since I’ve bared my bod in a sunny destination in public. And since then, my body has changed quite a bit.
It’s been through a pregnancy. It’s given birth. It’s breastfed my daughter and it’s aged a little too.
It is not the same as it once was, when I last strutted my sassy stuff on a hot Ibiza beach.
It’s not as lean. Nor as toned.
It’s showing a few more signs of wear.
I have a few stretchmarks and a kind of squishy bit at the bottom of my tummy that will never go back to how it was.
Yes, I am different.
Not that much. But enough.
Enough to feel a little nervous. Enough to have wibble wobbles about baring all. Enough to make my heart beat a little faster when I decided to dig out my designer bikinis the other week that I haven’t worn for four whole years and try them on.
In broad daylight.
I’ve always been pretty confident about my shape and size, but I admit, I had to take a few deep breaths when I went to try on the first one.
When I went to look in the mirror.