I'm fine and you're welcome

These are the times that try a woman's soul. And probably a few men's as well. It's swimsuit weather.

I'm not a young woman anymore; people only call me "young lady" now to flatter me at the checkout counter or to close the deal on a major purchase. But I'm far from over the hill, either, and when summer rolls around, I don't spend hours agonizing in front of the fitting room mirror with a pile of swimsuits heaped at my feet. I find what I can live with, I buy it, and off I go to enjoy myself - usually by myself, or with just family and a few trusted friends.

But then comes the dreaded "get-together". You know what I'm talking about: you're invited to a lake party or a pool party. You're excited, you love these people, it'll be so much fun relaxing and talking and enjoying each other's company.

Then you realize: this will necessitate public display of the swimsuit with you in it.

Perhaps this isn't such a good idea. But it's too late, you're committed, and your kids will be heartbroken if you don't go. So you pack a subdued blowsy coverup, make up your mind to spend as much time as possible submerged to the neck, and to dive into clothing the moment you emerge dripping from the water. Nobody should be subjected to the spectacle of your cetacean-sized self in drydock.

But I saw a picture recently of a woman my age (who wasn't exactly bikini material) wearing a bikini and holding up a sign that said, "Society says I'm unattractive but my mirror says I'm beautiful." Hmmm...brave. Outrageous, even. Maybe she's on to something. What does my mirror say to me?

Well, we're not usually on speaking terms, me and my mirror. We're like a couple that's filing for divorce but too broke to live separately just yet. We pass each other a few times a day, give each other dirty looks, and move on. But if we did break the ice for a moment and talked frankly about the view in the mirror, what would it tell me?

It would say, "You have stretch marks and a C-section scar the size of Montana."

And I would snap back, "That's from giving the world the most amazing human being I can imagine. You're welcome, by the way."

It would say, "What about that spiderweb of veins behind your knee? And the varicose veins starting up on your calves? Don't tell me that's from your little miracle."

And I would say, "Nope. They flared up when I started spending seven hours a day on my feet teaching other people's children. You're welcome for that, too."

"But those tree-trunk legs and arms! Come on, lady, that's not from some noble self-sacrifice! That's from a breakfast of Mountain Dew and Little Debbbie too many times!"

"Maybe," I'll say, "but these legs can carry me anywhere I want to go, and these arms can lift sixty pounds of animal feed, a loaded kayak, a crying child, or a whole stack of mirrors all with ease. You're welcome."

"The bug bites?"

"I like to be outdoors. So do bugs. It happens."

"What about the freckles?"

"Genetics."

Long stretch of silence. "Sounds like you've got an answer for everything."

"I suppose I do."

"And you're OK with all this?"

"You know, I think I am. I don't think I realized it until just now with this little conversation." A pause. "I'm fine, thank you. You?"

"Ditto. And you're welcome."