Bikini Bottom I

It matters not how small you are, shopping for swimsuits is a nightmare. Particularly shopping for a bikini.

It's especially difficult when you've already found the perfect bikini, and lost half of it after just one season in the sun. Thus it was with me last year. I found an understated, yet sexy, black bikini at your favorite and mine - Target - early last summer. It was black, with white piping, a halter top and nicely designed bottom that covered most of the derriere while managing to flatter the stomach.

It garnered compliments at our complex's swimming pool that only served to confirm what I saw when I bought it - this was one of those once-in-a-lifetime finds that every woman dreams about.

Yes, I know, shades of the IPEX, but female readers know how important, and how different, these issues are. A bra is a private thing. A swimsuit is public. Bra shopping can be annoying. Bikini shopping induces heart palpitations, shortness of breath and a re-examination of the pros and cons of liposuction. Even if you think the suit looks good, you dare not step outside the dressing room to consider it in a three-way mirror. And you wonder why on earth, if you're so scared to open the door of your dressing room, would you walk around in such a thing at a public pool??!

As you can guess, I recently underwent this most horrible of shopping experiences after I was torn from my perfect bikini.

On a late September evening, my son and I ventured over to the hot tub. We sat under the stars, talking quietly, often not at all, listening to the nocturnal insects and watching our feet change shape as we moved them underneath the water. It was a pleasant end to a long and beautiful summer day.

I ducked into the weight room to change out of my wet suit into sweats and a T-shirt. We walked back home, weary and relaxed, looking forward to crawling into our beds. But when we got inside, I discovered the bottom of my bikini was gone. My heart jolted, for I knew this was serious. Finding a nice top was one thing. Finding a bottom that covered and flattered at the same time was quite another. It was the end of the season; Target had long since stopped carrying them. If I couldn't find my bottoms, I was out at least until next season, maybe for good.

I retraced my steps immediately. Once. Then again. I searched the workout room, walked all around the hot tub and pool, scoured the ground with a flashlight. Nothing. It made no sense then, and makes no sense today. They had simply vanished. I thought of putting up signs: "Lost Bikini Bottoms! Rare and beautiful cut! Please call!" Our complex is mostly single women; they would have understood. But I resisted.

To this day, I suspect my neighbor, Eric, who only weeks later came to tell me about his extreme sexual passion. I passed by his back door on the way to and from the pool. He often called out a hello as my son and I sat in the hot tub or poolside. Could he have snatched them up after we walked by that night? It seemed a not-so-far-fetched thought, considering the out-of-line statement he'd made to me. And if he had picked them up, why? I always stop here, because I don't want to dwell on those particulars.

Instead, I opted to wait until springs, and fervently hope Target carried them again.

They did not. (Insert a series of discordant organ tones here, along with a second or three of Vincent Price's laughter).

Bedtime; Part II cometh.