The Call of the Mild

The Call of the Mild
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday February 22, 2014

It was the first time I’d been up close to a Miss Universe contestant. I felt intimidated – how a pigeon must feel standing next to a flamingo.

I turned to cross the shopping centre forecourt and noticed a small crowd creating a hubbub on the plaza. Curious, I stopped beside a white marquee and read the placard: Miss Universe 2014 WA Parade, Today 1pm and 3pm.

From behind a partition, one of the contestants stepped out beside me. Gazing up at her, her pre-Raphaelite mane ringed by a halo of mid-afternoon sun, I craned my neck to make out the top of her head.

She turned to talk to an official and I admired the waterfall of butterscotch-blonde hair cascading down her back. I cast my eyes to ground level to count the storeys on her platform sandals. And that’s when I noticed her left buttock had escaped her purple bikini. I couldn’t help but stare. Was she meant to have this much rear exposure? That golden crescent of buttock was perched on the top of her leg like a chicken tenderloin. (It reminded me to call past the butcher and get something for dinner).

I wondered if it was the official’s job to point out her rebellious rear end? Would she be mortified? Or was this a bit of cheek to outshine her competitors?

Swimwear has always been my nemesis. Beach-lover I am, but I still recoil at the evil hours I spend each summer trying to find flattering bathers. Even in my teens, when I should have been flaunting what I had, I was too self-conscious to parade it about. I wanted to be admired, not ogled. Mum drummed into me that too much flesh was tawdry – so I kidded myself boys liked the feminine mystique. Mystique was a glamorous word to an 18 year old – it put a seductive spin on my girlish confusion about men’s desires.

My girlfriends and I would pore over our Dolly magazines. Beauty in the 80’s was in your face as well as plastered on it – drippy lip gloss, eyeliner in iridescent aqua or electric blue, permed fringes stiffened with gel to defy gravity. Obsessing over my appearance in Mum’s bathroom mirror, I’d recite her mantra to my reflection: ‘Be Yourself!’

Then I’d troop off with my clone-friends to the Sunday session – all of us sporting the same wildly teased hair and giant earrings, and wearing our matching jackets with shoulder pads like foam mattresses.

In the 80’s, the dating game played in our favour. At the pub, we girls would huddle in an impenetrable circle around our handbags. Few boys had the fox-cunning or charisma to lure one of us away from our flock. Male mating calls were still primitive – a glance held a second too long, a smile spotted across the bar, or the venturesome “Got a light?” We knew we had the power of veto. Those girls who forgot to button their blouses or made-out in public were tramps. Nudity was cheap.

Bare flesh is no longer risqué. I’ve had enough of the micro-shorts that are everywhere this season. Please someone tell me – what statement is this fad trying to make? My 13-year-old goddaughter tells me they’re good for attracting guys. Call me old-fashioned, but I think your shorts should be longer than your bottom.  

Back on the forecourt, I wondered if it was envy making me so uncomfortable? Me: middle-aged housewife, mother-of-three, flat-footed in my orange thongs. I decided I needed coffee and joined the queue at the open-air cafe. The Miss Universe cavalcade had started and patrons were being offered a bird’s eye view.

I sat down next to an elegant woman tapping away on an iPad. She acknowledged me with a smile and pointed at the parade, straining to make herself heard over the loudspeakers: “Picked the wrong day to come here for some peace and quiet!”

I nodded and laughed and we surveyed the girls stalking down the runway, hips thrust forward, cupfuls of bottom jiggling suggestively: “They’re 90-percent naked!” she sighed. “I feel like a voyeur.”

She was right. It was like passing a car crash – shoppers had slowed to a crawl, some were leaning on their trolleys, mesmerised. And then I spotted my Miss Universe wannabe waiting off-stage. She looked nervous, shifting her lissom frame from one flamingo-leg to the other.

Then an odd movement caught my eye. She reached a slender arm behind her back. With thumb and forefinger, she stretched the elastic of her bikini bottom and tucked her wayward buttock back into place. Voila! A fraction of modesty restored. She put on a dazzling smile and stepped daintily onto the catwalk.

And I stepped daintily away to the butcher shop to buy a kilo of beef skirt.