There are certain milestones in a woman’s life: her first paycheck, credit card, kiss—hopefully not in that order. First bad sex, bad haircut, and balls-to-the-wall bad hangover. They’re not all memorable events, but we know they happened. This latest milestone, I’m quite sure, I won’t forget.

That’s right, the skirted number. The old fat lady bathing suit. I’d say it’s worse, even, than the Mom Chop—when women of a certain age begin to chop off their Locklears in favor of more sensible wash-and-go styles. And I get it—you ain’t foolin’ nobody.

Everyone knows what’s hiding under that tent, so why bother going there? I’ll tell you why. I feel far less self-conscious in the thing. I’m willing to stand there, uncovered, ready to chase my hops, hand them a juice box, whatever’s needed. I’ll take my time getting into the water if it’s too cold. I no longer need to keep my towel on the pool’s edge for the very second I’m ready to emerge from the water. It basically calms me the fook down. And that’s saying a lot, considering it’s hot pink.

Still, I gave my girlfriend fair warning. Play date. Her house. Her pool. Our kids. “Be warned,” I said. “I went there.”
“What?”
And then I showed her. The skirted number.
“Oh, Stephanie, noooo! You need to get yourself to the Hampton’s. You’ve been in Texas too long.”
“Yuh, there’s just about zero way I’d sport this there. Maybe I’d wear a sarong until the last possible second, then I’d make a mad dash faster than a Jerry Springer DNA test.”
“Now that I see it, I dunno. I guess if you have to wear a skirted suit, that’s at least a cute one.”
“It is what it is,” I pitched, purposefully exaggerating my New York housewife of an accent. And I am fooling someone: me. Because as much as I acknowledge that it’s a hag-bag habit, it still makes me want to work it. And live it. I’m even willing to go to a pool party… if I absolutely must.

Another milestone: posting a (so not at my fluorescent lights ready best) photo of yourself in a bathing suit. Never mind a skirted one at that.