![]() Maybe it was when I became a mother that my swimsuit policies changed. ![]() I don’t remember being particularly confident about my body, I do remember thinking that I should look confident, even if I hated my thighs. ![]() Bodies were the subject of the day, the month, the entire teenage experience. We scrutinized our own bodies ( Ugh LOOK at my thighs, they are so gross) or our friends’ bodies, ( Did you SEE her cottage-cheese butt?!). We wore bikinis, and during the front tanning sesh, we’d untie the straps, hike our bottoms up into our ass cracks (brief -> thong) and bake. If we ran out of Banana Boat, there was always Crisco in the cupboard, hanging out all solid and greasy, waiting to fry some chicken, or, in a pinch, sub as a tanning medium. In the 80s, the radio stations played the same 20 songs on repeat and had “flip” alerts every 30 minutes - “FLIP” to tan the front/back. If you were lucky enough to catch it, you might be able to get to the tape recorder fast enough to hit the red button so you would have that song at your fingertips (minus the first 10 or so seconds).Īh the good old days, when singers just alluded to their sexual escapades and Madonna made short hair look so good. Jenny and I spent summers lying on beach towels in her backyard, back when there was no Spotify, back when you just waited for the DJ to play your favorite song. ![]() Jenny had been my friend longer than any other person - seven years (which is basically a lifetime when you’re 12). When I was 12, I had a friend named Jenny. A bipolar, body-positive bread enthusiast with a fucked-up pretty much healed ankle and a history of disordered eating chronicles health, weight-loss, and gardening. ![]()
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