By Jim Hagarty
2001
If a man ever attracted the attention of beautiful young women at the beach during his early adulthood, it is unlikely he will do it very often as he approaches the age of fifty. Time, trouble and too many chocolate bars have a way of reducing the average male’s appeal to the younger members of the “fairer sex”, even given the long-held notion that young females often prefer the more mature male of the species.
And yet, there I was standing knee-deep in the gently waving waters of Lake Huron one sunny afternoon, tossing a frisbee back and forth to a friend, when I noticed two young women a little further out on the next sand bar, obviously glancing at me. They had long, sleek hair, and perfect human figures which they were scarcely bothering to conceal with small ribbons and bows, otherwise known as string bikinis. You might wonder how I managed to take this all in so quickly between frisbee throws, but I have a policy of returning looks that anyone bestows on me and so I checked them out as carefully as a man my age would dare to do while his wife was sitting in a lawn chair on the sand, a beach-ball throw away.
And I was not dreaming: they were definitely looking at me. And smiling. Sort of tee-heeing to each other, too, as if sharing a juicy secret. I glanced around to make sure that someone else wasn’t, in reality, the object of their perusal – I’ve been laid low by that mistake a time or two – but no, this time, for sure, the “babes” were checking me out.
I have to admit, it felt kind of good, approaching, as I am, the autumn of my years. I wasn’t sure what it was these nubile young things were finding so noteworthy about me, but I sucked in my gut and soaked up the notoriety and didn’t question it. You learn, as you go along, not to examine gifts such as these too closely; better to simply enjoy them.
I smiled back in the direction of my admirers as benignly as I could, a look of gratitude, I’m sure, spread across my chops, and turned to my frisbee-hurling buddy to apprise him of my good fortune. Leaning down to the water to retrieve the red plastic disk that had splashed down in the water before me, I looked down at my bathing suit and caught my breath as I did. The garment looked almost strange to me this day, its tie-strings and little pocket flowing freely on the outside of it rather than inside as they normally would be tucked. A second or two passed by till I was able to fully take in the situation: the women who had shot me the friendly glances were tossing me looks of amusement, not amour, at my shiny, green boxer bathing suit which at that moment I was wearing inside out.
You know, along with the other emotions that age just seems to knock the sharp edges off of, mortification is one that is somehow less daunting at fifty than at twenty. Still, it was a letdown, and as my friend also became aware of the situation and guffawed loudly as a result, I groaned at him in chagrin, “You know, somebody may as well just hang a sign ‘Nerd’ around my neck.”
Now, what did my sensitive, lifelong pal come back with, knowing as I know he did, how embarrassed I must have felt?
“You don’t need a sign, Jim,” was what he had to say.
Wow! That hurt more than the young girls’ giggles.
I think the measure of a man’s maturity is how well he handles being seen at a public beach wearing his bathing suit inside out. And I gotta tell you, I think I dealt with the situation pretty darned well. I betrayed little sign of anguish or even annoyance and in time, when I thought of the incident, I pretty well remembered only that two bathing beauties had looked me up and down and forgot, for the most part, why they did.
Selective memory, after all, is another benefit brought on by the advancing years. A good thing too as I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I’ll be putting my clothes on inside out.
And backwards.
