There it was--every Venezuelan woman’s “must have” and every gringa’s worst nightmare: the thong bikini. Blindingly pink, yet so small it was practically invisible to the naked eye.
Veronica anxiously waited outside, amidst rows of other tiny pieces of fabric that also called themselves bathing suits. "Are you ready? How's it fit?? Do you need a bigger one?"
When I opened the curtain 5 inches, she insisted that I looked espectacular and demanded that I step out of the dressing room to spin around (in front of other people? that happen to be gorgeous Venezuelan models??). That’s it, she said: I absolutamente had to purchase it.
I was more of the opinion that I would/could/should never appear in public wearing something that resembles a four year old's headband. But I’d heard it all before on the beaches of Venezuela: my JCrew bikini might as well have been pulled directly from my grandmother’s underwear drawer. It was time for a change.
The sales associate interrupted her gossiping to corroborate Veronica’s ridiculous claim that I looked arrechisima. I pointed out all the blah blah blah criticisms women always make of their own bodies, and Veronica responded with her this gringa has so much to learn head shake. She reminded me that any woman who thinks she’s drop dead sexy looks sexy and—more importantly—she really didn't want to be seen with me wearing those granny panties anymore.
Two minutes later, I’m handing cash to the saleswoman and walking out of the store wondering what the hell just happened. Now it's time for a weekend at the beach. And exposing parts of my body that have never seen the sun.