Since I was little I wanted to be a marine biologist. My parents would hate taking me on holidays because I’d spend my afternoons collecting rubbish from the beach and trying to save long gone sea birds. As I got older, the reality of actually becoming a marine biologist set in. Job prospects were minimal, locations were limited and most likely I was going to end up working for an oil company. None of those things were glamorous but I was willing to work past them all. I would take the minimal job prospects, the hard work, all of it. What I couldn’t take was wearing a wetsuit.
The dreams of being a marine biologist were shattered but the fear of wearing giant rubber suit in front of people lived on. What if I can’t get it up? What if I do get it up and can’t zip it up? What if I can’t get out of it? I saw a fat girl (yes, I can call her that, because I am one…) once try and get in one. She struggled, pushed, pulled, poured powder in it and had to get a very muscly man to help squeeze her in. There were no guarantees that the bastard thing would ever go on so while it wasn’t a major disaster that I never became a marine biologist, I have avoided the major water sports. I couldn’t bring myself to be that girl.
Today my second greatest fear died. Today, I wore a wetsuit. Snorkelling in Hawaii I didn’t think I’d need one. Yes, I worried about sunburn and in particular that crack of sunburn I get from snorkelling right under my arse cheeks. See with a bum like mine, it floats. Which means that crack that exists just under my cheeks sees the sun the whole time my face is in the water. Normally it’s a small price to pay to swim with the fishes and one I pay gladly. Today I got to the boat and she handed me a wetsuit. My look of horror must have been plain because she responded quickly with, “You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to. It just gets cold because we are out there a long time.”
“Thanks.” I stuttered back with what was, at the time, my best version of a smile. I walk away from the pack. Everyone else in the group is wearing theirs and it is only me that is holding it in my hand.
In my infinite wisdom I headed to the toilet. If I have to put this freaking thing on, then it won’t be in front of anyone. I stand in the toilet cubicle and play with the zip for a good few moments. I stretched both ways and tried to measure it across my gut. With a giant sigh and an audible ‘fuck’, I slid my feet through the holes and wiggle in. It comes up past my ankles, my calves, my knees – I have to do that little hop thing that you do when your jeans come out of the dryer and then next thing you know… It’s on. I am wearing a wetsuit from the hips down.
“Well, fuck me.” was all I could mutter. I stood for a moment, in skankiest public toilet in Maui and took stock. I sent a silent thankyou to Jodie (my personal trainer of the last 5 weeks) and pulled on my shorts over top. I got to the boat, climbed on with the rest of the seal impersonators and to my amazement no one said anything. No one looked at me funny, no one had to help me get it on or at the end of the day get it off. I swam, snorkelled, got up and down the ladder, ate and sat all in my wetsuit.
Like all things we are afraid of, when they actually happen you wonder what you worried about in the first place. I’ve always wanted to scuba dive. To actually swim with the fishes down where they are but for the last 15 years I’ve made myself swim on top. I’ve never been afraid to wear my togs in public but wetsuit humiliation was not something I’ve ever wanted to endure. Today I scrambled off the boat having swum with the turtles and sharks, seen whales and dolphins and all I could really think about is the fact that today I wore a wetsuit. Fear Factor schmear factor. You’ve got nothing.
life in big frilly knickers 