Opinion: I’m in the market for a replacement swimsuit, and I dread what this means

I need a new swimsuit. While this may make some women giddy with anticipation, I’m not one of them. I’ve plunged into a funk. I can’t think of a more depressing retail excursion. Well, maybe shopping for a casket.

I love the beach, the hot sand and salt-sticky skin after a dip. I love the first baptismal immersion of the season. I love shaking my wet hair and emerging from the depths of a wave like a slick seal. But you need a swimsuit for these pleasures. A swimsuit that actually fits and holds you together.

My old swimsuit doesn’t do that anymore.

It once did. It hid the bulges and bumps. It dissimulated the sag and the settling. And it did all that while looking stylishly nautical in its blue-and-white print. Never mind that when I first bought it, oh so many seasons ago, I did not garner the praise I had expected.

“What is that?” one son asked. “Are you wearing a skirt to the pool?”

“It’s an old lady’s swimsuit,” his sister retorted with authority.

Well, that old lady swimsuit, complete with its skirted bottom and tankini top, served me in good stead. It was dependable and loyal, and I cared for it as carefully as someone who knows she possesses a rare gem.

Unfortunately — and I write this with disproportionate dismay — wearing it has become something of a hazard. The elastic has lost its stretch, the once-sturdy straps have surrendered, the color is fast fading, and the fabric has pilled in all kinds of places. In short, the chances of a wardrobe malfunction have climbed exponentially in the past couple of years. I still use it, of course I do, but only for a swim in the backyard pool.

So, yes, I’m in the market for a replacement, an update, and I dread what this means. Shopping for a suit tops the list of tasks that, I believe, add nothing to the quality of my life, chores like cleaning toilets, scooping up dog poop, and scrubbing mold from tile grout. These are must-do’s that are really … I’d rather not.

Few sartorial decisions are as humbling as selecting a swimsuit that fits, or fits comfortably and alluringly while also hiding what needs to be hidden. This was a difficult balancing act when I was younger, and aging hasn’t made it any easier. If I was brave enough, confident enough, I wouldn’t care what I look like in strips of nylon and spandex. But it does matter to me, no matter how much I know it shouldn’t.

This, I believe, is a uniquely feminine dilemma. I’ve never heard a man bemoan having to shop for beachwear. Of course, they’re lucky they have few choices in that department: swim trunks, board shorts or speedos. In Florida, or at least in the Florida beaches I frequent, the preferred choice seems to be trunks, with some younger guys gravitating to board shorts. (Tourists expose too much to the sun in barely there briefs.)

We women, on the other hand, face an overwhelming number of styles. Yet, it’s not this abundance I find off-putting, no. It’s the onerous and mortifying process of trying on suits while keeping my self-esteem intact.

Fitting rooms are like a carnival fun house, except their mirrors don’t distort. They tell the plain, painful truth — of expanding waistlines and thick thighs and drooping chest. And those horrible unforgiving lights? Their glare reveals every dent and dimple, every perfect imperfection that can’t be airbrushed in real life.

All this lamenting, however, doesn’t change the fact that I need a new swimsuit. So, I’ve arrived at an unusual decision. The moment I step into the dressing room stall, I’ll remove my eyeglasses while trying on suits. I won’t be able to see past the length of my arm, but blurry vision has its benefits, after all.

Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.