I am stronger than this. I keep repeating these five words over and over. They've become my mantra. My eyes are focused, my attention fixed. I'm scouring the racks along with throngs of equally deranged shoppers, frantically trying to find the perfect bathing suit. Praying that I am not forced to ponder the rest of my summer wearing a tankini. Welcome to the seasonal madness of swimsuit shopping.

I venture into the dressing room to try on a suit. Why not just buy it and try it on at home? the voice in my head begs of me. Because I am stubborn and apparently a glutton for punishment. I slip on the swimsuit and admire it under those horrible dressing-room lights. My leg hair runs rampant, and I haven't done crunches in weeks. What was I thinking? I've had the past nine months to prepare for swimsuit-shopping season. I knew it was coming. I mean, I've been bombarded with images of tan, lean, bathing-suit-clad bodies since right after New Year's, serving as a reminder that I need to join a gym and that I was born into a mutant alien race of women who have butts, hips and thighs.