I’m counting the weekends between now and Labor Day, crossing them off as they pass.  Even though I love the summer’s long days, the glimmer of fireflies rising from the grass as evening settles in, I’ll be glad when I no longer have to find new excuses for why I don’t want to go to the beach.

Every year in May I realize that I ought to look for my bathing suits, if only to remind myself of what size I used to wear. More than any other single clothing item, a woman’s bathing suit tells her where she is in her life cycle. And the consequences of what have been euphemistically dubbed “lifestyle choices.” I am everywoman.

When I was 20 years younger, I had physical therapy for a bad back. The young male physical therapist demonstrated what he wanted me to do. “Do this,” he said just before… More…

I was 20 minutes into a knock-off reality television show called Make Me a Supermodel — which pits aspiring male and female models against one another — before I started to wonder how I had gotten sucked into the absurdity of it all. It took another 10 minutes to muster the discipline to turn it off.

It was enthralling television in spite of its derivativeness and dithering dialogue. Dominic recalled how everyone always told him that he should model and Perry told us that he was only auditioning for the show because his girlfriend insisted, while Aryn swore that modeling had always been her dream and Holly cried when she talked about how proud her family would be if she became a model.

Up until the moment I turned it off, I was completely caught up in the excitement of looking at beautiful people, figuring out what made them particularly… More…