There’s a saying in Maine to describe the weather: “Nine months of good sleddin’, three months of not-so-good sleddin’.” There’s no such thing as “spring” (unless you count mud season). Growing up, it was like we’d wake up after a nine month nap, and BAM: it was summer. There was formal transition marked by blooms and blossoms, just the sudden realization that your snotcicles had melted, and it was time to apply SPF 4000 and venture into the sun. Seasons are weird like that in New England.
I’m now in Punta del Este, Uruguay. It’s amazingly beautiful, but everything here is upside down. It’s not just that winter is summer and summer is winter, or even that fact that dinner is at midnight and the bars are empty until 2am. It’s the beach: it defies everything I’ve ever learned about sun exposure, cellulite and gravity. All the women here are wearing thongs, and doing it with pride. And all of them can pull it off. At the age of 70, these grandmas are still looking great.
But I’m from New England. I am pretty sure my grandmother wore a smock to the beach, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t crack my genetic code. When I showed up in my bikini I instantly felt overdressed and exposed the same time. I stand out here like a New Yorker at LL Bean.
“Don’t worry about it,” I coached myself under my breath. “If they came to your beach at home they would look ridiculous. They probably wouldn’t even be wearing any fleece!”
It seems to me that there are only two female segments here: very young girls in one-piece bathing suits and buxom bronzed beauties who “just say no” to tan lines. “Paddle ball with dad? No problem! Let me just adjust my thong!” Here, bathing suits are to butt cheeks as long johns are to high heels back home: the pairing makes perfect sense until you introduce someone from the outside.
I suppose if you’re a teenager down here one day you just wake up, and suddenly it’s Thong City. There’s no transition–no sporty Speedo, no tankini, just one piece of pricey thread hanging between you and total nudity. Like seasons in Maine, when you wake up one day and realize you don’t need wool socks.
So I guess we have that in common.
