OK, it’s past Memorial Day. The mercury is climbing and soon I will be forced to peel off my black sweatpants and stuff myself into a swimsuit. It won’t be pretty. I intended to be in fantastic shape for the unveiling of my thighs this season, but I didn’t go to the gym and I didn’t lock the fridge and forgot to save up for liposuction. So now, my body is the shape and consistency of dough. I blame it all on my kids. Before I had kids, I had the figure of a 23-year-old. Heck, I was a 23-year-old. This body is all their fault.

Before I had kids, I wore two-piece suits that proudly exposed my mid-section. Since I’ve been a mom, I’ve become the master of disguise. I wrap beach towels around my middle and cover my dietary transgressions with a voluminous maternity suit. Nine years after my last pregnancy, the suit still evokes sympathetic stares and well-meaning questions.

"When’s the baby due?" they ask.

"In 1994," I quip brightly.

Now, after years of service, the elastic has disintegrated and the suit is baggy. Even on me. It’s time to toss the maternity suit and admit, before the National Enquirer starts getting interested, that I am not still pregnant. It’s time to buy a new bathing suit.

I don’t expect it to be easy – I have some tough criteria. I need something that will minimize my figure flaws. One that will draw attention away from my deficits and accentuate my assets. One that’s more burka than bikini. Price, naturally, is no object. If I found a bathing suit that made me look 20 pounds thinner and 10 years younger, I would pay. A lot.

Oh sure, they have those "miracle" suits that are reinforced with steel and supposedly compress excess flesh, but I’ve looked at enough catalogs to be able to pick those suits out in a crowd. Whenever I see anyone wearing one, I automatically visualize 10, maybe even 15 extra pounds. It makes me feel better about myself.

I’ve searched extensively for a new bathing suit. I’ve looked in the stores and I’ve shopped online. I’ve tried on thongs and sarongs, tankinis and one-piece racers, suits with skirts, suits with shorts, suits that promise to hold you in, push you up and flatten you out. I’ve tugged on suits that are designed to enhance your bustline, emphasize your waistline and eliminate your tan line. It has been torturous.

Believe me, there’s nothing more loathsome – not even periodontal work – than trying on bathing suits. Except trying on bathing suits with a kid in the dressing room. Once, I brought my youngest child with me when I shopped for a swimsuit. My ego still hasn’t recovered. He was full of questions.

"How come your tummy sticks out? Why is your butt so big? How come your arms move when you don’t?"

There was just one answer: "Because I’m a mom."