​Swim

I am looking at a tiny bug crawling across the top of my thigh, as I Iie out on a lounge chair catching some rays in this already unforgiving Carolina summer. I feel beads of sweat build at the backs of my knees. I am wearing a black t-shirt and black gym shorts – without a cloud in the sky, I am absorbing the full strength of the sun beating down on me. But, still, I refuse to take off my clothes out of some misplaced shame of my too curvy body, dotted in patches of dark hair and red blemishes in places I’d prefer not to be seen. I am looking at a pool full of people stripped down to their stringy bikinis and swim trunks, appearing free with no reservations about their bodies being on display for anyone who cares to steal a glance. I am looking at children cannon-balling into the water, not yet aware of the weight of being perceived. I miss that feeling. I miss not being afraid. Afraid of others’ judgments. Afraid of not being desirable. Afraid of revealing my aging body with its wrinkles and graying hair. I am looking at people enjoying themselves, cooling off in the shallow water and sipping beers with their friends and families at the edges of the pool. I am looking at people not looking at me. Not even for a second. Maybe one day, I’ll join them for a swim.