Sorry, world: Another year with no swimsuit sightings

Once again, I have managed to make it through an entire golden California summer without once wearing a swimsuit in public.

I know you’re not going to believe me, considering there are 2.4 pools for every person in Southern California, but I have no friends who own swimming pools. Well, that’s not actually true. I have no friends who have invited ME to swim in their pools. I try not to take this personally, but the leprosy is well under control, according to my doctor, and I’m no longer contagious.

I have one dear friend who’s always saying things like, “You must come over and swim in our pool. I’ll make lunch.” But then she never comes up with an actual date when this magical experience might actually occur.

Some people might say, “But, Marla, we live near the biggest swimming pool imaginable: The Pacific Ocean! Why aren’t you enjoying it all summer long?”

Now, this is a valid criticism. I live only a 10-minute drive from the beach. When I moved to Southern California (back when dinosaurs roamed the earth), I couldn’t get enough of the sand and surf. Every warm day found me exploring a new beach from Ventura to

San Diego, driving there in my VW Rabbit convertible, blaring music with the top down.

We camped at the beach. We swam. We grilled. It was a summer tradition.

I can’t specifically identify when this phase of my life ended, but suddenly the prospect of ferociously guarding a fire pit at the beach from 6 a.m. to 7 p.m. just to have a bonfire after dark entirely lost its appeal.

The eventual smoke always made my eyes water, and various body parts that weren’t facing the fire became numb with cold.

In general, I even stopped enjoying the desperate hunt for a parking place – any parking place, even in Montana – and then the never-ending sand that blows into my face. Let’s not even discuss the great white sharks that have been seen offshore.

This is why I haven’t been seen in public in my swimsuit since 1986. It has nothing whatever to do with my ample proportions or the fact that 99.9% of the women who do spend time at the beach could pose for Victoria’s Secret ads.

I do get in the water, though. I go walk in the swimming pool at my gym regularly. I like this because it’s multitasking. I’m getting exercise, plus a friend usually comes with me and we talk nonstop the whole time.

This is a considerably healthier way to socialize than getting tacos at the local Mexican restaurant, especially when you consider that our gym doesn’t sell beer.

I would certainly burn more calories by swimming, but it’s hard to talk while you’re doing it and talking is my favorite occupation.

It’s strange to me these days to travel frequently and not really care whether the hotel has a pool.

When my kids were little and we were traveling, I relied on swimming in pools to get them tired, so they would sleep in their hotel bed. Their sleep meant that I actually could knock out safely afterward.

I’d also throw them in the pool first thing in the morning, before we trekked onward to our next destination, to burn off a little of that endless energy and reduce the Middle East conflict-level warfare that always went on in the back seat.

If it wasn’t hot, I’d look for indoor pools. But nowadays, they just don’t care. Cheetah Boy likes pools, but not with his mom.

And my 23-year-old daughter, Curly Girl, has claimed to me for years now that she doesn’t own a bathing suit. Only recently did I discover that she does own one – but it’s a thong bikini.

She knows that I’d fall down in a seizure if I saw her naked buttocks on display, so she spares me that experience by simply denying the thong’s existence.

Now, I don’t approve of thong bikinis, but at least my daughter has the tush to wear one. Last time I was on Miami Beach, I saw enough withered, beef-jerky-looking elderly buttocks to last me the rest of my life.

Seriously. Ladies. Whatever happened to the lifeaffirming principle of disguising your flaws? Entire magazine empires have been built around that.

But then, Floridians are strange in so many ways. And that’s not as odd as the 80-year-old woman I saw walking around downtown Las Vegas, collecting tips while wearing nothing but a G-string and pasties.

I have a deal for you:

I’ll spare you the sight of my naked rear end if you spare me yours.