The perfect bathing suit doesn't exist

It's a popular notion that shopping for bathing suits is a demoralizing activity for women, one that makes them loathe their figure flaws even more and perhaps turn to a tub of Ben & Jerry's to drown their sorrows.

Not so for all of us.

It doesn't even bother me that every suit in my size bears some tag that explains the problem it's supposed to hide. "Thigh minimizer." "Tummy control." "Bust enhancer." Give me a break. If the bathing suit is actually bearing a tag that explains what is wrong with you, your secret is out. No amount of Lycra is going to squeeze, yank or lift you enough to make your fellow pool-goers look over the tops of their sunglasses and say, "Whoa! Is that Halle Berry?"

This realization has been very liberating. I used to try on at least 10 or 20 bathing suits - no exaggeration - becoming increasingly discouraged with each one. Now the only thing that frustrates me is how much they want to charge for swimwear.

I got a reminder over the weekend when I realized the one bathing suit I'd been wearing for the past five years was starting to look a little ragged. It was unlikely it would make it through another season.

So I was off to my favorite chain for the pleasingly plump, where a circular rack was squashed full of plus-sized bathing suits. Oh, and what an array they were. About half of them had skirts. Almost all had tropical patterns even Liberace would have found over the top. Excuse me ... designers? Gaining weight does not make a woman want to look like a pinata.

The cheapest suit was $70. It was time to brave Wal-Mart.

We all know what Wal-Mart can be like on the weekend, but my last bathing suit came from there, and look how well it served me all these years. I strode past the smiley faces and the accompanying slashed prices straight to the women's section.

There it was ... a nearly exact replica of the suit I bought five years ago. Same size, same style, almost the same color.

That style, by the way, is just a giant, nondescript piece of Spandex-nylon blend. There is nothing to lift my breasts, flatten my belly or minimize my thighs.

It's the kind of bathing suit that says, "Girl, you put me on right now and get your fat butt out to the pool, you hear?" And you know what? I think I will.

Today is my ninth wedding anniversary. As my gift to The Other Half, I am not mentioning him in my column.

Except for this note. But that's it. Happy anniversary, Swee, and thanks for putting up with me all these years.

Heidi Hall is a former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.