IF there is one thing I love, its sunbathing topless.
Every year, come the summer months, I think nothing about getting to my sunlounger in the garden, the park, or on the beach, spreading out on my towel and whipping off my top.
After months of being shrouded in woollies and layers, I find it liberating to feel my body drinking in the golden rays. There is something about heat and near nakedness that makes me feel fun and footloose.
Except I am not a nubile 30-year-old, I am a 63-year-old woman.
I don’t see why it should be such a big deal anyway. I’m a firm believer that summer is the time when you can be your best, fun, and carefree self. It is not the time to be fretting about your wobbly bits or the size of your stomach.
Looking back, since I was 16 and on holiday in the South of France with my friends, I have been soaking up the rays sans bikini top.
In the 1980s we wafted around the sands of Portofino and Sicily flaunting our lithe, bronzed bodies wearing only skimpy bikini bottoms and a golden suntan, and checking the admiring glances from local boys.
Fast forwardfour decades, and while the admiring glances are a thing of the past, skimpy bikini bottoms and not much else is still my go-to beach uniform.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not under any delusion that I look like my 30-year-old self. Like most women, I am no stranger to wobbly fat, sunken soufflé bottom, and thingsheading south.
But that doesn’t mean I have to cover up. No way.
Of course not everyone agrees. I distinctly remember several years ago on holiday in Nice with my then-fiancé and a few other couples.
As I stripped off, some of the men gawped, and a few of the women tutted and whispered amongst themselves, seeing it as some sort of come-hither gesture to their balding hubbies.
Hang on! Isn’t it time we grew up and stopped tittering over unfettered mammaries (which are petite anyway)?
The way I see it is that it’s the tut tutters who think nothing of harassing me when I am lying there topless in the sun.
Despite finding a quiet grassy area to lay my towel in the park, passersby will roll their eyes, and mothers with children shake their heads. One man stood there staring, and another came up to me obviously thinking, ‘she’s topless, she’s fair game.’
One a couple of weeks ago, a dark haired young man sat a metre away, gawping at my chest and then started to chat me up – I politely asked him to move away and he got quite riled.
My more judgy friends say being half naked in a public place is asking for it, “put your top back on”;;, they roar.
How unfair it all is.I don’t to get attention. It is the only way you’re going to avoid those white triangles and get an all-over tan.
I am careful to cover up with, but there is nothing like a full body sun kiss to make you feel and look healthy. And Vitamin D, as we know, is very good for you.
Do men cover up the minute their stomachs start to resemble anything less than a washboard? Do they heck. In my experience, they don’t even notice if it’s getting a bit flabby.
I have lost count of boyfriends who sunbathe happily despite packing a generous midlife paunch. And no one minds.
Don’t get me wrong, I am unlikely to be found uploading boob-shots on Instagram. But I still see my body as something to be celebrated. We all should.
Yet, go to any beach and women spend their time in a series of ill-fated sarong purchases to cover up any sight of dimpled flesh and a line in sturdy swimsuits.
It’s always the British. Why are we so weird when it comes to nudity?
Our wink wink nudge nudge attitude is stuck somewhere in the Carry On films of the 1950s/60s and daring to bare is still seen as tasteless and inappropriate on anyone over 25.
Last year on a holiday in Marbella as I lay on the sun lounger soaking in the suns rays,one English man in his late 60s clad with a medicine ball stomach and tight swimming shorts came over wagging his finger, and then told me I should be ashamed, there were families around, he said. including his. I was flabbergasted. I told him it was none of his business, and other families on the beach looked away when I smiled. Others tittered, and a couple even pointed. I had broken the silent contract. Thou shalt not show thyself in public, tuples over 40.
Well, isn’t it time we got over our collective guilt about our bodies and start realising that it is simply about being natural?
I back on and sit there fidgeting around with straps and underwire, not to mention getting two ugly white triangles on my chest, just because the bikini police think it is unbecoming in someone my age.
I remember when my nephews were younger, I thought nothing of whipping off my top. That was until they looked at me distinctly uncomfortable. It clearly wasn’t an auntie thing to do.
It got worse when I offered to buy them an ice cream from the kiosk on the next beach, I was told in no uncertain terms to put my top back on. But apart from teenagers, I don’t bow to anyone.
Why cant I celebrate being 63 and liberated? It shows that I have reached middle age and is not ashamed to show myself semi starkers.
Look, I wouldn’t play beach tennis bouncing around, swinging breast syndrome is not a good look. Ditto if I am going to sit at the beach bar, then obviously the top goes on. But a saunter along the waters edge, shouldn’t shock anyone.
To me, my body is not something that has to be put out to pasture just because some people may think it is past its seduce-by date. As I see it, going topless on the beach is about freedom. Freedom to do and wear what you want at any age.
