The Unflinching Gaze, Deconstructing the Swimsuit and the Politics of Female Body Ownership
As the holiday season beckons with promises of sun, sand, and sea, a familiar specter haunts the packing lists of countless women: the swimsuit. For stand-up comedian Radhika Vaz, this piece of clothing is not a simple garment but a “terror-inducing bit of cloth,” a focal point for a lifetime of cultural conditioning, sexism, and internalized body shame. Her deeply personal and sharply funny essay, “My Relationship With A Swimsuit…It’s Complicated,” is more than a confession of sartorial anxiety; it is a powerful cultural critique that lays bare the intricate prison of expectations built around the female body. In an era that simultaneously commodifies body positivity and perpetuates unattainable beauty standards, Vaz’s journey from poolside paralysis to aquatic liberation offers a radical blueprint for reclaiming one’s own body and, most importantly, one’s own gaze.
This article delves into the multifaceted battle women wage over their own physicality, using the swimsuit as a potent symbol. It explores the intersecting forces of cultural morality, ageism, and bad body image, and argues that true freedom lies not in achieving a “perfect” body, but in dismantling the very need for external validation. Vaz’s story is a microcosm of a universal struggle, a call to arms for women to live for their own gaze, to be real, and to finally have fun.
The Swimsuit as a Cultural Battleground
The swimsuit is uniquely fraught because it leaves little to the imagination. In a single garment, it converges multiple societal anxieties about female visibility. As Vaz, a 52-year-old Indian woman, points out, for her demographic, “body shame is practically mandatory.” This shame is twofold: it is both aesthetic, concerning the “shape of things,” and deeply moral, involving the burden of “‘showing’ myself in front of men.”
This moral dimension is critical. Vaz articulates a generational code of conduct where showing skin was permissible in controlled, fragmented doses—”shorts that show thigh, halter tops that show shoulder, and skirts that show midriff”—but never all at once. The swimsuit, by its very design, violates this code. It represents a step too far into the realm of female agency and visibility, threatening a patriarchal order that seeks to control and moderate how women occupy public space. The sight of women entering pools in salwar kameezes, which Vaz once scoffed at, is a direct response to this moral pressure—a pragmatic compromise to participate in fun while maintaining a veil of modesty dictated by culture.
The Tyranny of Function and the Ageism of Invisibility
Vaz’s resistance was also rooted in a fierce, logical pragmatism. “Why on earth would anyone not engaged in the act of swimming need to be wearing a swimsuit?” This question highlights a broader cultural absurdity: the wearing of activity-specific clothing as fashion. Her critique extends to yoga pants, cowboy boots, and cycling shorts, questioning the performative nature of modern dress.
However, this logical stance masked a deeper insecurity. The real issue wasn’t the swimsuit’s function, but the judgment she anticipated for wearing it without the “right” body. This reveals the core of bad body image: it’s not just about personal dissatisfaction, but the paralyzing fear of how others will perceive your self-perception. Vaz confesses, “I never want is for them to think that I might be entertaining the idea that my body is flawless.” This level of meta-anxiety—worrying about what people think you’re thinking about yourself—is a bewildering but common mental trap for women socialized to be humble, self-critical, and never too self-assured.
This anxiety is compounded by a pervasive ageism. Vaz observes an unspoken pact among her peers: swimsuits are for ages 0 to 30, after which they are banished in favor of concealing kaftans. The legs, once celebrated, are now ranked and hidden accordingly. Astonishingly, this prohibition lifts around age 65, not because society suddenly embraces older bodies, but because it dismisses them. At this stage, a woman in a swimsuit is no longer seen as a sexual being; her body is deemed harmless, and her choice is read as “ironic” rather than aspirational. This creates a cruel paradox: a woman’s body is only granted public freedom when it is culturally rendered invisible.
The Path to Liberation: Agency Through Action
Vaz’s breakthrough did not come from a sudden attainment of body confidence through diet or exercise. It came through a reclamation of agency. She decided to learn how to swim. By joining a children’s class and mastering the crawl, she fundamentally shifted her relationship with the swimsuit. It was no longer a costume for posing or a source of anxiety; it became a uniform for action.
This is a profound psychological shift. When the purpose of the clothing is aligned with a tangible, empowering activity, the focus moves from how the body looks to what the body can do. “Doing the activity my outfit was designed for gives me all the spunk I was previously lacking,” she writes. This action-oriented confidence is more durable than the fleeting highs of body positivity, which often still ties self-worth to appearance. By focusing on capability, Vaz silenced the internal critic. Her subsequent purchase of a “very expensive two-piece because I deserve it” is not an act of vanity, but a trophy celebrating her newfound competence and freedom.
The Ghost of the Ghoonghat: Internalized Patriarchy
In a moment of stunning self-awareness, Vaz realizes that her feminist principles had been compromised by an invisible force. “Just because I don’t cover my head doesn’t mean I am not wearing a ghoonghat,” she admits. The ghoonghat, a traditional veil, is a powerful metaphor for the internalized patriarchy that persists even in the most progressive women. It is the mental veil that prompts constant self-monitoring, the fear of being perceived as arrogant or sexual, and the prioritization of male and societal gaze over one’s own comfort and joy.
This realization reframes her entire journey. The women in salwar kameezes, whom she once judged, were at least “having fun and being real.” They had found a way to participate on their own terms, however imperfect. Vaz, in her “transparent cover-up,” was the “fake, nervous, miserable thing,” still trapped by the very norms she intellectually rejected. Her journey to the pool was not just about conquering a fear of water, but about removing this internal ghoonghat.
A New Pact: Living for Your Own Gaze
The central paradox of modern womanhood, as Vaz identifies, is the conflicting demand to be both confident and self-critical. “Women are told how to talk, walk and dress from an early age,” she writes, with influencers providing endless tutorials on how to “cover, disguise, enhance or distract” from our “flaws.” And yet, from this foundation of constant correction, we are expected to cultivate unshakable self-esteem.
The solution Vaz proposes is elegantly simple yet revolutionary. It is a call to shift the locus of judgment inward. Her new pact is a manifesto for self-ownership: “If beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, then let that beholder be me.”
This is not a call for every woman to don a bikini. True liberation is about choice—the choice to wear a salwar kameez in the pool without judgment, or the choice to wear a two-piece without fear. It is the freedom to define the terms of one’s own visibility. It is about decoupling clothing from morality and self-worth, and recoupling it with personal joy, function, and comfort.
Conclusion: From Complicated to Unapologetic
Radhika Vaz’s complicated relationship with a swimsuit is a universal story told with unique clarity and humor. It demonstrates that the path to body liberation is not linear and often involves unexpected detours, like learning a new skill at 52. Her story teaches us that sometimes, to change how we feel about our bodies, we must first change what we ask them to do.
The swimsuit, in the end, is just a piece of fabric. The real battle is over the narrative we attach to it. By choosing to live for her own gaze, Vaz transforms the swimsuit from a symbol of terror into a badge of honor—a testament to the power of action, the importance of being real, and the unassailable right of every woman to simply have fun, in whatever she chooses to wear.
Q&A: Delving Deeper into Body Image and Agency
1. What does Radhika Vaz mean by the “moral burden” of showing her body?
She is referring to the cultural and often religiously-infused idea that a woman’s body is inherently shameful and must be concealed to maintain social and moral order. It’s not just about personal shyness; it’s the weight of a societal judgment that equates female modesty with virtue. “Showing” skin is thus framed not as a personal choice, but as a transgression against this moral code, making a woman responsible for the reactions she might provoke in men.
2. Why was learning to swim such a pivotal part of her overcoming swimsuit anxiety?
Learning to swim shifted the purpose of the swimsuit from a performative garment to a functional one. When her primary goal changed from “looking a certain way by the pool” to “swimming laps in the pool,” the swimsuit became a tool for action rather than an object of scrutiny. This redirected her focus from her body’s appearance to its capability, building a more authentic and resilient form of confidence based on what her body could do, rather than how it looked.
3. What is the “internalized ghoonghat” she describes?
The ghoonghat is a traditional Indian veil. Vaz uses it as a metaphor for the invisible, internalized rules of patriarchy that women carry with them, even when they outwardly reject traditional constraints. It’s the internal voice that prompts self-consciousness, the fear of being judged as “too much,” or the need to qualify one’s self-confidence. It’s the mental barrier that persists long after the physical one is gone, ensuring women continue to police themselves.
4. How does ageism play a role in who “gets” to wear a swimsuit?
Vaz identifies a cruel, unspoken age-based rulebook. Young bodies (ages 0-30) are considered appropriate for swimsuits because they align most closely with conventional ideals of beauty. Middle-aged bodies (30-65) are expected to recede from view, hidden under cover-ups, as they are often deemed to have “failed” to maintain youthfulness. Shockingly, older bodies (65+) are granted permission again, not because society celebrates them, but because it desexualizes and dismisses them, viewing their choice as harmless or ironic rather than as a genuine expression of body confidence.
5. What is the core message of her proposed “new pact”?
The core message is the radical act of becoming the primary beholder of one’s own beauty and worth. The pact—”If beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, then let that beholder be me”—is a declaration of self-ownership. It urges women to stop outsourcing their self-esteem to external judges—be it men, media, or social media influencers—and to instead become the ultimate authority on their own bodies, their choices, and their value. It’s about prioritizing one’s own gaze, comfort, and joy above all else.
