Stripped down

My most recent excursion to Old Navy didn't just net some free workout wear. Inside the white plastic bag, along with the capris and tank, was something I've been wanting to buy my entire life. Something I've stared at longingly, hoping that one day I would earn the privilege of owning. Something, I am nearly ashamed to admit, that I consider a status of beauty and fitness.

A bikini. A green and white polka dot bandeau bikini.

When I declared 2013 the year to Make Shit Happen, I had told myself - and Mark - that I wanted to get over myself, get over my insecurities, and buy the bikini I had long considered a hard-earned reward for losing weight and then losing the baby weight and then keeping it off. The one I thought I should be able to wear because the scale reads 12X.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't do it. I would try on the two-piece swimsuits and get disgusted. The bottoms would be too small and the extra skin of my lower abdomen would flop over ... or under ... or both. Boy suit bottoms would come down right where my saddlebags begin, further accentuating the bulges that can't be calorie counted and exercised away. High-waisted suits came to the upper belly fold, marking the spot of a pocket of excess skin and fat around my belly button.

One day, at Kohl's, I thought I had finally won. The pinky-coral suit was cut better than any I had ever tried. The low-rise bottoms covered every thing I needed without coming up to the bulge. The top was padded, a must for my barely-there A cups. I exited the dressing room to show Mark the best-case scenario but rather than strutting out, I slunk. Even showing my husband, the guy who has seen me naked and cut open, I was embarrassed. All I could see in the suit was a bony upper torso, a belly roll and heavy thighs - not the healthy, fit woman I was hoping to find. I shook my head and quickly made my way to change. Tears welled in my eyes as I hung it up, struggling to accept that I just don't have the bikini body.

We talked about skin removal on the way home, a conversation that has persisted over the years as I live with the effects of significant weight loss. He ... I ... we've almost come to accept it as an inevitable way to close the door on who I used to be. Mark is supportive, saying we would find a way to pay for it, but I struggle on undergoing an expensive, extensive procedure for the sake of vanity. It's not guaranteed to make me happy, it will take me off the trails for at least six weeks and it will inhibit my ability to parent.

That day, I gave up on the idea of 2013 being the year I put on a bikini. Maybe, if I did get the cajones to have the surgery (next year at the earliest), I would try again. I even looked at before-and-after photos of tummy tucks and lower-body lifts to give myself some hope.

But last Tuesday, as C tried on Old Navy activewear capris, I found myself perusing the swimwear rack, attracted to a "sale" sign like a moth to a flame. The polka dots were so cute. Green is one of my favorite colors. Bandeau tops are my favorite. A glutton for punishment, I opted to try it on. "It couldn't hurt," I thought.

The bottoms slid on and stopped two inches below my belly pouch. In a size medium, the sides didn't dig in and create any overhang. The strapless top showed off hard-earned deltoids and shoulders, and a bit of padding helped the girls out. Like the suit at Kohl's, it was as good as it was going to get on me. Still I waffled.

"Oh, that's cute!" C said, spying the suit over my arm as she exited the fitting room. "Are you going to get it?"

I wasn't sure, I told her. I wasn't sure I could pull it off. She assured me that I could - I was young. Young, yes. Flat abs, no. "Who cares?" she said, urging me to purchase it.

And who does care? Besides me. Probably no one. Or not one of the people who will be around to see it. As a family friend recently told me, everyone is too wrapped in their own insecurities to care about yours. So, I bought it.

I took it home and left it in the bag, not even telling Mark that I had picked it up. I didn't want him to know as part of me wasn't committed, wondering whether I should take it back. The other part? Well, she thought I should keep it and wear it. Proudly. Because every stretch mark, every centimeter of excess skin - they are like battle scars. Battle scars from crusades I won and from a war I sill continue to fight.

Four days, though. It was four days before I mustered up the courage to put it back on and model it for Mark, who, to my surprise,  he was incredibly positive. He said he liked the pattern and the fit was better than the coral number at Kohl's. Sure, the belly was there but there's nothing I could do about that.

So I kept it. Sort of. Old Navy had a special Memorial Day sale on its suits - even better than the day I bought it - prompting me to return/swap/exchange it for a new combo. I might not be the best bikini body at the pool this summer but I'll be damned if I'm not one of the strongest.

And, of that, I will be proud.