April 12, 2010

Bikini madness!

Text by Maan D’Asis Pamaran

As soon as the season’s temperature started rising, so did the anxiety levels of many usually level-headed ladies I know. The reason? They felt that their bodies were not bikini-ready. At the onset of summer, mirror-moaning sessions became common in coffee shop conversations, with phrases like “thunder thighs” and “salbabida belly” being bandied about. Along with those are names of good liposuction experts, whose names were uttered with reverence. Then, in more hushed tones, were musings about getting Brazilian waxes.

Many shunned carbohydrates like it would kill them. I recall telling a friend that if they keep it up, there would be never be another rice shortage in the Philippines. One acquaintance admitted wondering if she could order two jumbo patties—without the buns—at her favorite fast-food joint. When I warned her about scarfing down all that artery-clogging cholesterol, she shrugged, “at least I won’t get any carbs with that.” Then, she wondered aloud if she could order a pizza without the crust.

Some joined fitness clubs, in herds, so they won’t feel out of place. Then, after a solid cardio workout, they would head on down to their favorite barkada haunts to down a few beers or alcoholic mixers and a plate or two of deep-fried pulutan to go with it. Often, these are the ones who complain that the butt-busting program they enrolled in is a gimmick. So, they stop going to the gym, but to comfort each other, still continue with the barkada nights.

These are all results of what I call bikini madness—a phenomenon that often rears its ugly head about a week before a planned trip to Boracay or some other beach haven. It’s a mad scramble to look like a Victoria’s Secret model (or a Sex Bomb girl—whatever floats your boat) while sashaying down Pier One.

It is easy to get caught up in the body wars. Those glaring lights in the boutique fitting rooms can make anyone with a poor self image feel like a sow in spandex. Photos that banner images of stick-thin models in an array of barely-there swimwear aren’t much help too. It also doesn’t help that most of the designer swimsuits are created with Giselle Bundchen in mind.

The result: girls grazing on lettuce leaves and not much else; ladies downing cup after cup of slimming teas, until they are up to their eyeballs in L-Carnitine; and couch potatoes who suddenly break into a run as if training for the Boston marathon.

I’m not saying that getting a bite from the fitness bug is not a good thing. As long as these women drop the pounds and don’t end up dropping like flies, then that’s okay. But when it really boils down to the basics, I believe it is not worth looking like a million bucks if you will have to spend close to that amount in therapy and medication for anorexia (or yuck—bulimia) and all the other health risks that crash dieting and crash weight training can bring.

Nor am I saying that a little remedial overhaul by an expert is a bad thing too. But even the experts say that modern science cannot do it alone. Even after a lipo session, you would have to work at keeping the flab from coming back.

The best mantra to believe in, in this case, is Love Thyself. No body is perfect. Those that are, are probably products of successful multiple operations and supreme sacrifices, or it is in their freakishly flawless genes. One star with a scorching hot figure is said to order a big bilao of her favorite pancit, only to have her staff have a go at it, after she takes a forkful or two. Let’s face it—for a normal human being, going down several swimsuit sizes in two weeks is Mission Impossible. It would take a month, or more, plus a steely resolve to even make a dent.

Sure, a snarky comment would be that I feel that I am above the fitness rush, because I am thin. It’s so easy to be slim, my ironic reply. Just keep a house with four active boys and no helper. Try toning your arms by wringing wet laundry, ferrying heavy school bags, groceries and wet market goods, and lifting 10 kilos of wriggling baby almost everywhere. In short, it is no picnic for me, either. And I do have some excess baggage in the carriage. But I don’t let it bother me, and I even wore an honest-to-goodness bikini top and shorts on our recent beach outing with la famille.

My two-cent’s worth—don’t fight your body type, flatter it. Case in point: my problem is my bee-hind, hence the shorts. If you are uncomfortable baring your midriff, then go for a one-piece suit in your favorite color. Boy-leg cuts are also great for covering up real or imagined thunder thighs.

Don’t get caught up in the madness. Free yourself and enjoy your summer without stressing out over how that guy you are eyeing over the beach hut Margaritas sees your shape. If he’s just ogling you like a piece of meat, then he deserves to be stung mercilessly by jellyfish anyway.

The views expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect those of HerWord or BusinessWorld.

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