Swimsuit shopping usually strikes dread. Not this time

I thought I’d get to skip swimsuit shopping this year since last years onepiece was in good shape.

But while I reminded my son six times to pack his trunks before we went on vacation, I forgot mine.

Nothing strikes dread in most women like swimsuit shopping. I rank it right up there with my annual Pap smear.

You stand in the dressing room under harsh fluorescent lights, squashing yourself into a tube of Lycra, while an overly attentive saleslady on the other side of the door asks, “How’s it going in there?”

Great. Just freakin’ great. No way I was going out in public in this.

But on vacation, I wanted to go to the beach and the heated salt water pools in Mount Maunganui. So when we came across a women’s clothing boutique with a wall of swimsuits, I begrudgingly flipped through the ones in my size.

“Let’s get this over with,” I said, picking out a black one-piece. My mother smiled encouragingly. A saleswoman showed me to the dressing room.

I wiggled, tugged and jiggled into the swimsuit with all the grace of pulling on tights when I’m still damp from the shower, and then I looked in the mirror.

I saw a sturdy, middle-aged woman, underpants bunched around her hips creating an extra roll, with wobbly thighs but calf muscles like Fred Flintstone from tap dancing.

I smiled at her. It was a cute swimsuit. The ruching disguised my pooch. The halter tie kept the girls cinched up.

Oh, sure, I’m no fashion model. But at 54, I’m done worrying about how I look in a swimsuit.

I pulled back the curtain to show my mom. She and the saleswoman flooded me with compliments. Maybe they were just being kind. Maybe I should have taken off my shoes and socks.

I bought the swimsuit anyway. Because I’m not missing out.