ROBIN WRITES: Swimsuit Reality Check

By Editor | July 21, 2026 |

How does this one look, Hon?” The blonde woman in the red bikini swivels her hips and carelessly twirls a lock of hair around a finger. Her body is on display for Hon and anyone else near the fitting room.
Already tan and taut from tennis or some other ‘my body is important’ sport, she is the picture of summer. Her legs don’t jiggle, her chest does, and her bottom is as round and firm as a soccer ball.
I sigh, look away, and scan the tags of the swimsuits hanging before me. Waist-whittling. Bust Enhancing. Bottom Slimming. Tropical colors splash my retinas, trying to convince me that banana tree leaves and yellow butterflies will actually make my double-digit body look ‘island lithe’ when I wear them.
I grab a few loud selections and crush them against my body to quiet them down. All one-piece (thanks for everything, kids), most with flouncy skirts.
I squeeze around Bikini Girl and make my way toward the Room of Doom—the one with the mirror and bright fluorescent lights that capture every dimple and pucker and bulge.
The first skirted forest of color I try on is a bit constricting. The waist-whittling design forces my stomach toward my thighs, and the bust-enhancer pulls my upper arms inward, making my armpits ache.
Now, ain’t this a gorgeous sight. I bet even Gilligan would cancel his “three-hour tour” if he saw me boarding the S.S. Minnow in this getup.
Miss Perfect Body finishes her latest show, and Hon returns to his slouched position against the outer wall. I leave the fitting room to find other options.
While I’m looking at other suits, I feel a set of eyes watching me.
Glancing around, I spot a lone woman holding a terrycloth cover-up at eye level. Our eyes communicate like tin cans connected by a string; the message she sends me is clear.
“I have something to tell you,” she transmits. Whatever information she has for me, I know it will make me feel good.
That’s what grown-up women do for each other. In times of extreme stress, when we see one of our own sinking in a sea of self-doubt and insecurity, we bond together with words of encouragement and healing.
And we trash the offending party that has caused the pain.
I weave my way toward my Guru of Girl Talk.
“Listen.” She bobs her head toward Miss Teeny Weeny, and I lean toward the fitting room doorway to hear.
Our clueless Swimsuit Princess is prattling on and on to Hon as she treats him to her newest slinky selection.
“You know, hon, I could wear this one next year after the baby comes. It’s a smidgen loose on top, in case I grow a little there…” She giggles naively and ba-booms back behind the wall.
My new friend and I smile at each other knowingly. This will be the last year Hon will see the show. There will be no more itty-bitties.
Stretch marks will replace the spaghetti strings. Cups will support instead of display. And that cute little soccer ball bottom will be matched by a new momma soccer ball belly.
Time and motherhood are, indeed, great equalizers.
I found a black, ‘All-Over Slimming’ swimsuit that works. The spandex is trampoline-tight; you could bounce a dime off my stomach like a regulation-made army cot.
Miss Enjoy It While You Can has left the building, and I feel hopeful that someday we’ll meet again.
Then she’ll be one of us. We can teach her how to squeeze a big booty into a little swimsuit bottom without dislocating her hips or trapping her thumbs.
It’s an art.
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■ Robin is a freelance columnist who lives and writes in Quincy, Illinois. Contact her at [email protected].