On Island Time

Content warning: fatness, ED

This weekend I ate boiled shrimp with my hands, straight off of a table thoroughly covered with torn up leaf bags from Home Depot. It was 85 degrees out, the sun was slowly setting, and I had not one single qualm about the cleanliness of the shared meal. I didn’t think about what a fat girl looked like licking her fingers to get every bit of Old Bay. I didn’t consider if people might like me less or find me ugly.

There’s something special about island time and the way it offers freedom. I’ve spent my whole life, just like you probably have, face to face with a barrage of dialogue around *Beach Bodies*. Yeah yeah, whatever. I know. But as much as I hate it, I can’t help but be aware of the idea and impacted by the belief that a Beach Body is lithe and skinny and hairless. Tan and lanky and wispy. Also strong. Also blemish-less. Also belly-less. Smooth. Small. Confident.

In the past decade(s), intersectional feminist ideology has butted against the idea that a body on the beach has to be something specific… We’re bathing in the idea that a Beach Body isn’t a “capital-B real thing.” A beach body is JUST a body on a beach. And it is starting to be liberating to me, even when outside of that space I feel constant pressure to conform to a body I’ve never had. Awareness of my body eats away at me in every aspect of my life. But when I’m on the beach, near the water, in the waves, I feel most comfortable in that which is mine. What a novel concept.

In the months leading up to this weekend, the celebration of our dear friend’s marriage, I ebbed and flowed in a thought space I both loath and turn back to again and again: How can I make my body look smaller in the next X months? In January I cut processed sugar. In February I found a workout groove that gave me energy and made me happy. In March I noticed I felt good and looked… the same? Bigger? On April 1st I ordered cute bikinis in multiple colors and sizes and said “f**k it. I’m wearing a suit that makes me feel good.” And then I packed by bag and decided not to think about it. And we traveled to South Carolina. And I wore my bikini to the beach. And I tried to pay attention to everything BUT how my belly looked.

That first night at the shrimp boil (pronounced “bowwwl”, if you will), I chatted with folks and met parents and grandparents and friends with my salty hair slicked back and a sunscreen sheen on my skin. Post-beach is usually tricky for me. Prettier people can pull off this look, but I feel I need to hide my body with fresh hair and a clean face. I didn’t look in any mirrors. I enjoyed good food, laughed as I learned to peel shrimp (I’m a North East girl, I can crack a lobster just fine) and enjoyed the warm air and cool breeze off the water. With the promise of more sun and more salty air, I woke up both mornings with an excitement to put on the dang bikini. AND, I woke up hungry. And so I ate and enjoyed and was nourished. And we walked the beach and picked up shells and I swam and got sweaty and was happy.

They seem distant relatives, those two things: a bikini and a really good sandwich. I used to tell myself growing up that food had a moral attachment. That skipping out on a class trip for ice-cream made me a better person than if I’d “caved”. That eating in secret was easier to hide, even from myself. That feeding myself wasn’t always the answer to hunger. I spent a lot of my young adult years creating moral equivalents for the food I wanted and the food I ate, how I consumed it, who knew about it, and if I enjoyed it. I didn’t want to look greedy or full. I didn’t want to be judged because, god forbid, I was a fat girl eating.

Disordered eating comes in a lot of forms, and a lot of the time we don’t know we have experienced it until way later in life. I didn’t know I was in active recovery until years and years later.

Saying no is a difficult thing to do in any situation. For me, I find it hardest in these two spaces: first, in letting society dictate my body. Second, in letting myself judge my hunger, my appetite, and my food. Wearing a bikini to the beach without shrinking the size of my body first is not something I’m usually jumping to do. Feeding my body without question is rare in my day-to-day. And yet, theres a freedom, for me, that comes with sand and water and salt. A space for questioning to be swept up and away by the breeze. A place to close my eyes with that first bite of sandwich and savor the spring of teeth sinking into ciabatta. A time to don my bikini top and walk into a restaurant like all those other skinny people. To feel beautiful, to feel satiated, to feel brave, to feel enough.

Island time, be it on an actual island, by the lake, or even on your back porch on a sunny day, is the way life is intended to be lived. Maybe we never get all the way there. But we can practice and try again and embrace little joys as they come.

If you are struggling with an eating disorder you can find help here and more information with the National Eating Disorders Association.