Butts, Boobs, and Bunions Part II

I have always loved the feeling of being naked because I’m very hot-natured and sweat at the first glimpse of sunshine.  It’s a horrible curse to have overactive sweat glands as a girl, and the more I sweat, the more nervous I get about sweating so it’s never-ending.  I remember reading, “To Kill a Mockingbird,” when Harper Lee describes the Southern ladies’ metaphoric response to heat as “they (Southern ladies) were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum.”  Well, I am no dewy glistening teacake.  I am a disgusting wet mess; similar to a 350 lb. hairy man running in 100 degree weather.  It’s positively gross.  The fewer clothes the better and my experience with a topless beach in Europe was my first crack at any kind of public nudity.  But here’s the thing: there are some unwritten rules about topless sunbathing and everyone else seemed to know the parameters except for me.

It was May in Italy and my friend Cory had arrived to visit for 2 weeks.  One afternoon we jumped on the train to the beach and while en route, I asked her if she was planning on going commando on top.  “Well, I’m not sure,” she said, “Are you?” “Of course!”  I replied.  “Everyone does so it looks kind of weird if you aren’t topless.”  She agreed to think about it but she just wasn’t sure. We arrived, found our spot, lined up our chairs and towels and off came my bikini top.  Cory seemed a little surprised at my level of comfort but after looking around, one could see this was the way to go.  What wasn’t the way to go was topless over to the snack bar.

After scorching ourselves in the sun for an hour or so, we spotted a gelato cart over by the snack area and decided an ice cream would be jim dandy.  “I’ll pop over and get our frozen treats,” I said.  I felt so relaxed and comfortable in my new topless world.  Before leaving, Cory asked with a wincing look, “Are you going to put on your top, Boobs McGillicutty?”  “Ummm, no.  Why?” I replied.  “Because you’re going over to buy something, you freak.  Laying on the beach is one thing but walking over to a public area is different.” “Oh would you relax, Cory.  This is Europe.  Nobody cares.”  And with that, I was off.  By the time I finally reached the cart I realized I’d made a grave mistake and was so self-conscious and uncomfortable.  I was, in fact, the only woman purchasing a cone without a top on.  And believe me, the ice cream guy did not believe in taking a discreet peek.  He just stared at me.  Leered actually is more like it.  I bought the ice cream as fast as I could and just wanted to get back to my safe place on the beach and cover myself from head-to-toe.  I needed to get back and get back fast so I decided to run directly across the sand as opposed to following the path that I so gingerly walked before.  As soon as I stepped on the sand, my feet felt like I had lit them on fire.  It was hot as shit and walking was just not possible—survival instinct kicked in.  And lots of pain.  I’ll never forget the look on Cory’s face when she looked up and saw me sprinting toward her, topless and desperate, ice cream melting all over my hands.  She was dying laughing and had a million “I told you sos” for me and said my big cans bouncing all over the place was an image she would not soon forget.

“Who doesn’t put clothes on to go buy food in public?” She sarcastically asked.  Apparently I don’t.

The older I get the more comfortable I am in my own skin and I do feel a little more accepting of my physical flaws-but I still think about them.  My legs are never going to be long and lean, there aren’t any magic squats that can get my backside firm as two grapefruits, and botox is calling my name.  I think of that Violent Femmes song “Add it Up” as I once-over my body and take inventory on all the purchases and additions I’d make if I could.  Then I get down to my feet and it’s a different story—no adding on.  In fact a hammer and chisel would work  wonders.

My feet, in a word, are ick.  In addition to my dad’s squatty Irish build, I received his wide feet and my mom’s genetic disposition for bunions with the potential bonus of a hammer toe down the road.  If you look at an imprint of my left foot you could easily spend hours wondering what animal or mutated human made this print.  It’s the most bizarre outline I’ve ever seen – kind of a cross between a webbed foot, with a 6^th toe and a high arch.  Sandals elude me and trying to find a bunion friendly heel is next to impossible.  It just plain sucks.  And you can forget the poor soul who has to provide my pedicures; I usually sit down and immediately start apologizing. When I receive a perplexed look, I simply remove my shoe and flash my Fred Flintstone foot their way and all becomes crystal clear.