The Itsy Bitsy Teeny Bikini Bottoms Incident - Memoir Shard

 

THE BIKINI BOTTOM BETRAYAL

(The Itsy Bitsy Teeny Bikini Bottoms Incident)

When you go on holiday in your menopausal era, packing becomes a whole personality test.

In my case packing paralysis - Stress, You think you’ve been sensible. You think you’ve chosen the bikini bottoms appropriate for a 50‑year‑old woman who is about to spend a weekend in water rapids with fifteen friends at a wedding party. Not a romantic getaway, Itsy‑Bitsy‑Bikini style. Not a private sun‑lounger moment. A group activity situation.

And I’m not saying I shouldn’t wear a tiny pant — I absolutely can — but sometimes you want a bit of coverage. Not for shame. For practicality. For movement. For the reassurance that a buttock isn’t going to make a surprise appearance mid‑splash.

So I packed the bikini.

(Big mistake: I didn’t take it out of the delivery packaging.)

Third bikini in this style. I packed the bottoms. I thought I packed the bigger pair — and by “bigger” I don’t mean Bridget Jones. I mean “slight butt cover.” A whisper of modesty. A nod to physics. I’m buxom; I know what I’m working with.

If you know the brand Moda Minx, you already know the truth: all their bottoms are small. Some are just less small.

At home, I’d taken out my rash vest, my matching shorts, my matching socks — the whole “I’m in a group of people and I want to move freely without worrying about a breast escaping or a buttock migrating” kit. That’s my gran kids, In-laws holiday uniform, no need to worry that your body is all wear it should be. Not because I’m body‑conscious, but because I don’t want other people to become body‑conscious on my behalf.

Cut to the holiday.

I pull the bikini out of the bag. I take off my shorts. And only then — only then — do I realise the truth.

I have packed the tiniest pair of tiny pants. The Spanish‑style, small triangle front matches back, “best worn while lying still on a sun‑lounger with a book and no witnesses” pants. The pants designed for posing, not plunging.

The pants I would happily wear alone, with my partner, on a quiet beach. Not the pants for water rapids, group laughter, inflatable rings, and the possibility of being photographed from behind.

And the worst part? My sensible bottoms — the ones with the slight butt cover — were sitting at home, neatly in the packet, waiting for their moment, or so I thought but it turns out when I ticked the order boxes, I was having a senior moment. Because they're almost G String ruched‑down‑the‑back Style. WTF

Luckily, thanks to the sheer shittiness of perimenopause and menopause, my acting skills are now Oscar‑level (I'm Fine) . I managed to manifest a whole Emperor’s‑New‑Clothes situation — only with coverage.