The first blush of Spring is merely a week away and, naturally, thoughts turn to what's ahead - namely, months of warm sunshine and cool water; every Sydneysider's god-given right. And yet with this onset of sun comes a flurry of fleshy nervousness that hits both sexes beachside with equal angst: How to look good when almost naked?
The swimsuit or swimmers has always been a bone of sartorial contention. After a few cocoon-filled chilly seasons, we're suddenly summonsed into the light, inevitably forced to shed those protective layers and reveal what truly lies beneath. Laydeez, time to take your pick from the one-piece or bikini in new cuts that promise to strap you into shape without ending up looking like the string-bound Christmas ham. Gentz, the dickstickers or budgie smugglers form part of many a man's sunbathing ritual, however, for modesty's sake, the boardies offer a level of decency that society politely requests these days.
And yet there are those who have deemed, in a world much different to our own, that it is quite acceptable to bare the flesh in a fashion that's, well, never in fashion. Case in point, an episode during my teenage years when, en route to Bondi with a dear friend of mine, we encountered our very own version of the dicksticker come decidedly unstuck.
Can you imagine, a pair of innocents out for a day of 'fun in the sun', seated on the bus opposite a gentleman who, in a pair of shorts so tiny and tight, let his testicles out for an entirely unnecessary airing. Glancing down we saw them: a pair of sorry, scooped-out molluscs, unceremoniously evicted from their synthetic shell and placed, like some flaccid offering, on a well-worn seat, most certainly not sunny-side-up.
Clearly, he missed the memo. The last time I looked, public transport was still fervently clinging on to that all-important 'l'.
And yet it would appear that some things never change. A quick stroll around many of our beaches indicates that it ain't rood to be nearly nood. Truly, I'm no prood, but at some point, surely we must ask of ourselves and each other:
When it comes to beach fashion, where do we draw the line in the sand?
To me, it seems like the craziest thing - an invisible sphere where unrelated bits 'n' bobs get to hang out in unadulterated unison; a chorus of on-show butts 'n' boobs creating their very own siren call, one that I have yet to heed. And yet, just a few hundred metres away, the sphere dissolves and hey, presto! Those sand-groping parts, so acceptable a moment ago, are cause for wide-eyed stares and stern 'tutt tutts' from a wary public.
Ah me, it's all so tense-making - enough to scare a girl away from our sunny shores in search of less-frightening summer style, where the great Aussie thongs remain the sole domain of the feet, not a floss-like thread of butt-clenching swimwear.
The bottom line? For me, t'is a world in which beach and balls remain mutually exclusive. Of this, I am shore.
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