The Beauty of Things Imperfect

It’s that time again.

Heading back to the Mother City and her endless stretches of beaches along the False Bay and Atlantic coasts.

Heading to the place where open spaces and open minds co-exist, and the city has a pulse and a rhythm to it that’s almost intoxicating.

I’m hoping to arrive in the season of less:

Less fabric. Less inhibition. Less hiding… for some…

And just like that, my imagination takes flight.

28℃.

It’s just hot enough to hit the beach.

It’s the season to uncover and expose; it’s time to have bodies kissed by the sun, salted by the sea, and covered by sand—white and coarse.

The young and the brave are carefree on beaches, playing volleyball: jumping, diving, spiking, with no wobbly bits bobbing randomly about. Swimming in wild oceans with string bikinis clinging precariously to tiny bottoms. Throwing frisbees furiously, endlessly energized, dodging festive beach umbrellas, deck chairs, and sunworshippers, beached like whales.

I watch from under an umbrella big enough to have its own postcode.

I hide.

I hide under a wide-brimmed sun hat and huge sunglasses.

I hide behind a modest bathing costume and a tropical sarong.

I hide behind being the mom.

It is easier to fade into the background when you are older.

I look at myself in the mirror of my makeup bag and see the lines etched on golden skin.

Lines that tell the story of my life.

The wrinkles and tiny lines at the edge of my eyes are still sparkling, crinkles from years of love, laughter, and smiles. I take my fingers and run them slowly over each one; it evokes memories more precious than gold.

And I’m happy with how it has all turned out: It’s freeing to be unbothered by how you look to others.

I watch the ocean curl and crash, children squealing as they dart in and out of its foamy fingers.

There’s a sandcastle to my left, slightly lopsided, with a crooked flag poked in the top, a plastic spoon gleaming like a trophy.

It leans to one side but holds fast.

It’s not perfect, but it’s standing.

I am that castle, gritty and lopsided, yet standing strong against the incoming tide.

I stretch out on my towel, book in hand, though I’m mostly people-watching.

The volleyballers. The toe-dippers.

The family next to me, whose beach umbrella keeps flying off like a kite in the breeze.

The mom gives up and collapses in the sand, laughing, hair wild, kids piling buckets of shells around her like she’s some sun-kissed goddess of the shore.

She looks radiant. Carefree and sun dazed.

I give her a knowing smile, and she nods right back.

The sea air does something to us; it unlocks all those old memories and reminds us how to be carefree.

She giggles like a schoolgirl, mango juices dripping down her chin, and I make a mental note to buy mangoes for Iftar.

I get up to escape the tantalizing aroma of mango and go for a walk along the shore, cold water rushing to my feet.

I wander deeper and feel the waves lapping at my thighs and salt sticking to my skin.

The water is ice-cold and fierce, and I laugh out loud when a rogue wave slaps me sideways, knocking my sunhat off, exposing my under cap.

I land on my bottom, my sarong and bathing costume soaked through, and I glare back toward the beach where he’s sitting, grinning under his own ridiculous hat. His says, “Brunei,” in colourful letters.

“Did you see that?” I shout, wiping water from my face.

He stands up, hands on hips in his board shorts, and calls back, “Looking good, babe!”

“Jirre, please,” I say, snorting.

“I’m serious,” he hollers, stepping forward and holding out the beach towel to me, “Beautiful!”

“Haram, Habibi,” I reply, laughing with him at my clumsy self.

“Haha…,” he snorts, hugging the towel around my shoulders.

I’m laughing now, loud and real.

“You’re so cheesy!”

“Minute!” I call out, but I’m still smiling.

“Nooit,” he says, plopping back down into his chair with a dramatic sigh, like his job here is done.

Lol. It never is.

I waddle back to our spot, still laughing, feeling strong and satisfied.

Happy with this being, this body.

Not the one I had before, or the one I thought I should have.

This one. Now.

Wobbly bits and all.

Golden skin with lines like poetry, sun on my shoulders, feet sinking into warm sand as I walk back up the beach to where he is sitting.

Later, we’ll gather our things:

The book I didn’t read, the towel that’s half damp, and our coir picnic mat.

I’ll shake out the towel.

Find sand in everything: my bag, my shoes, the seams of my swimsuit.

And I’ll smile.

I’ll find it days later in the car, which still smells faintly of coconut sunscreen, the back seat littered with hair ties, and rogue flip-flops.

And I know this for sure:

The dodgy herb garden on the windowsill will still be failing spectacularly, despite my best efforts.

But the mint? The mint will be thriving like it owns the place.

My downward dog will always start out a bit wobbly at the start of the yoga session.

But I will breathe through it and eventually stand firm and strong for the 5-breath count.

My dress sense is highly experimental.

But those flowy NUUN linen cloaks with comfy pant suits underneath have become my signature style.

It’s all a little messy. A little wobbly. Slightly imperfect.

And it’s beautiful.

I'm all old. A little Sassy. Slightly stubborn, just stubborn enough to keep things spicy.

And I’m still beautiful.

The beauty of things imperfect isn’t about settling.

It’s about seeing.

Seeing the lopsided castles, the streaky sunscreen smudges on cheeks, the waves that knock you sideways, and knowing it’s still good.

You’re still good.

Better than good.

And no doubt, when you're in your pjs with your hair tied back, wandering through the apartment barefoot, comfortable in your own skin, you will know:

You're still here, still standing.

And you’ve earned every stripe.

That's the beauty of things imperfect.