of the above?
Oddly enough, it all worked out okay. She did fine on her SATs, way better than she expected. And Arthur got his heart broken by Beth, after which he came crawling back to Sarah, who went out with him for the whole summer between junior and senior year, and then had the vengeful pleasure of breaking up with him on the day before school resumed in September.
That was what baffled her. Arthur Maloney was not an important person in her life. At best, he was a minor footnote in her romantic history, a teenage boy—not even a cute one—who’d kissed her one day and regretted it the next. She’d barely given him a thought since the day she graduated from high school. So why, she had wondered, in those strange days while she awaited the delivery of her bathing suits, was she suddenly thinking about him all the time?
The floral bandeau was a bad idea, that much was obvious. It squeezed her chest like a tourniquet and possessed none of the “bust-enhancing” qualities boasted of in the catalogue. Not to mention the fact that Sarah always felt extremely self-conscious in flowered clothing, as though she were surrounded by quotation marks. Hello, I’m wearing “flowers.”
The black underwire top was more flattering—and less embarrassing—but she must have ordered it a size too small. The supports dug into her ribs without mercy, mortifying her flesh like a whale-bone corset. How odd to be reminded of bustles and hoop skirts while wearing such an un-Victorian article of clothing.
She did like the tank top. It was casual and alluring at the same time, revealing a modest but still provocative glimpse of midriff. Unfortunately, the color was all wrong. They could call it “blush sunset” if they wanted to, but it was really just pink. And Sarah didn’t wear pink.
My God , she thought, what is wrong with me? I don’t wear flowers, I don’t wear pink . She recognized the debilitating voice in her head, the one that said no to everything. It had been lurking there all her life, holding her back, keeping her from taking chances and breaking free of unproductive patterns.
In grad school, Sarah had written a paper criticizing Camille Paglia as a “false feminist” for celebrating the sexual power of a few extraordinary women instead of focusing on the patriarchal oppression of women in general. She was especially irritated by Paglia’s worshipful take on Madonna. What did ordinary women—secretaries, waitresses, housewives, prostitutes—have to learn from a rich, famous, beautiful, egomaniac who’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted?
But lately Sarah had come to the conclusion that they—or at least she—had a lot to learn. Madonna didn’t say, Oh no, I couldn’t possibly wear those cones on my chest. Oh no, I couldn’t pose as a nude hitchhiker. She just said yes to everything. Cowboy hats—sure! Sex with Jesus—why not? Motherhood—that’s cool, too. When one role got old, she just moved on to the next one. That was a form of liberation in itself, Sarah realized. Only temporary, and not for everyone, but real enough for the lucky few who had the imagination to pull it off. And the fact was, women in general weren’t about to get released from patriarchal control anytime soon, so in the meantime, it was every girl for herself.
The fourth suit she tried on was a red bikini, the color of a candy apple. The top was skimpy—“unconstructed,” according to the catalogue—but her breasts fit nicely inside the two cloth triangles. The bottoms came in a style called “boy shorts,” which promised “ample coverage.” Somehow the boyishness of the shorts brought out the womanliness of her body, accentuating the curves of her hips and ass, while concealing the problem area at the top of her thighs. Amazingly enough, she looked okay. Maybe even better than okay, at least for a woman pushing thirty who’d gone through childbirth.
I should wear red more often , she thought, pondering herself
Oddly enough, it all worked out okay. She did fine on her SATs, way better than she expected. And Arthur got his heart broken by Beth, after which he came crawling back to Sarah, who went out with him for the whole summer between junior and senior year, and then had the vengeful pleasure of breaking up with him on the day before school resumed in September.
That was what baffled her. Arthur Maloney was not an important person in her life. At best, he was a minor footnote in her romantic history, a teenage boy—not even a cute one—who’d kissed her one day and regretted it the next. She’d barely given him a thought since the day she graduated from high school. So why, she had wondered, in those strange days while she awaited the delivery of her bathing suits, was she suddenly thinking about him all the time?
The floral bandeau was a bad idea, that much was obvious. It squeezed her chest like a tourniquet and possessed none of the “bust-enhancing” qualities boasted of in the catalogue. Not to mention the fact that Sarah always felt extremely self-conscious in flowered clothing, as though she were surrounded by quotation marks. Hello, I’m wearing “flowers.”
The black underwire top was more flattering—and less embarrassing—but she must have ordered it a size too small. The supports dug into her ribs without mercy, mortifying her flesh like a whale-bone corset. How odd to be reminded of bustles and hoop skirts while wearing such an un-Victorian article of clothing.
She did like the tank top. It was casual and alluring at the same time, revealing a modest but still provocative glimpse of midriff. Unfortunately, the color was all wrong. They could call it “blush sunset” if they wanted to, but it was really just pink. And Sarah didn’t wear pink.
My God , she thought, what is wrong with me? I don’t wear flowers, I don’t wear pink . She recognized the debilitating voice in her head, the one that said no to everything. It had been lurking there all her life, holding her back, keeping her from taking chances and breaking free of unproductive patterns.
In grad school, Sarah had written a paper criticizing Camille Paglia as a “false feminist” for celebrating the sexual power of a few extraordinary women instead of focusing on the patriarchal oppression of women in general. She was especially irritated by Paglia’s worshipful take on Madonna. What did ordinary women—secretaries, waitresses, housewives, prostitutes—have to learn from a rich, famous, beautiful, egomaniac who’d gotten everything she’d ever wanted?
But lately Sarah had come to the conclusion that they—or at least she—had a lot to learn. Madonna didn’t say, Oh no, I couldn’t possibly wear those cones on my chest. Oh no, I couldn’t pose as a nude hitchhiker. She just said yes to everything. Cowboy hats—sure! Sex with Jesus—why not? Motherhood—that’s cool, too. When one role got old, she just moved on to the next one. That was a form of liberation in itself, Sarah realized. Only temporary, and not for everyone, but real enough for the lucky few who had the imagination to pull it off. And the fact was, women in general weren’t about to get released from patriarchal control anytime soon, so in the meantime, it was every girl for herself.
The fourth suit she tried on was a red bikini, the color of a candy apple. The top was skimpy—“unconstructed,” according to the catalogue—but her breasts fit nicely inside the two cloth triangles. The bottoms came in a style called “boy shorts,” which promised “ample coverage.” Somehow the boyishness of the shorts brought out the womanliness of her body, accentuating the curves of her hips and ass, while concealing the problem area at the top of her thighs. Amazingly enough, she looked okay. Maybe even better than okay, at least for a woman pushing thirty who’d gone through childbirth.
I should wear red more often , she thought, pondering herself
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