This past weekend I found myself in a store, trying on bathing suits. My whole life I have avoided that particular activity but there I was, accompanying my husband who had gone in to spend some of his “birthday-money”.

As he went off to the men’s section I meandered over to the women’s. First, I looked at shorts (always a challenge) then I had the bright idea of looking at bathing suits. After all, I would be visiting my father-in-law in about a month to celebrate his 90th birthday in Florida and might actually need a bathing suit. “A new one would be nice,” I told myself.

As I flipped through the suits in my size (a very limited selection) I almost lost my nerve. “Your old suit is just fine. What are you thinking!?” I warned myself. I was already in a bad mood from some things that had happened earlier in the day, and I knew I was on shaky ground emotionally. But, I persisted. I even waited in line to get into the dressing room. As I turned to face the mirror after struggling into the first of three suits I had brought in with me, I gasped. Who was that woman in my mirror! (I seriously thought that). I dutifully tried on the next two suits only to have much the same reaction. Leaving the suits in the dressing room (I wasn’t sure of the protocol these days and, anyway, wanted to be as far away from them as possible) I went to find my husband, and say I would see him in the car. It turned out he was ready to go, too.

I sulked all the way home. He never asked me why. Maybe he had seen me going into the dressing room with some bathing suits in my hand, and knew not to broach the subject. (Husbands who have survived thirty-nine years of marriage have learned certain things.)

When I got home, I went about my normal routine but added a quick look at all the diet books on my shelf in the bathroom. I pulled one out and left it on the counter. Since my days as a skinny, starving ballet dancer, I have never stuck with diets. I get hungry and all my good resolutions vanish – poof! But something had to be done, didn’t it??

While putting away laundry later in the day, I realized something: I was hating myself. Or, rather, the image in the mirror I had seen in the dressing room. Hating it. A voice suddenly said,“Who are you to hate yourself? There are things for you to do in this life, things that matter, and looking great in a bathing suit is not one of them. Get over it.”

That was what the voice said and, reluctantly, I had to agree.

I then remembered, vividly, walking into a dressing room with a slew of bikinis when I was about seventeen and, frankly, in perfect shape. I tried on every one of them and came out furious. My poor friend who had accompanied me had the temerity (unlike my husband) to ask me what was wrong. I growled at her, sure it was somehow her fault, and said, “I looked horrible in ALL of them!!” She foolishly tried to assure me I must be wrong. I imagine I gave her a truly hateful look because we stopped discussing it. I managed to ruin the rest of our shopping trip and went home soon after to sulk and take my ill temper out on my unsuspecting family.

Standing in my room, I resolved not to be pulled into that downward spiral again. Sure, I looked dreadful in those suits. But, I had a wonderful suit in my bottom drawer that still fit.  A suit I had worn every summer day since moving to Maine, when I would put it on and go swim in the small lake up the road. That would do for Florida. In fact, it would remind me of my evening dips when I would swim far out into the empty lake and lie on my back, looking up at the mountains all around me, hoping to hear the call of a loon. Surely, that was what was really important? It certainly brought a deeper sense of joy than any perfect physical shape I had ever been in over the course of my life. That had only brought anxiety, and vanity, and competition.

All my life I had been told by authors I admired, and people I trusted, that real beauty was a spiritual quality, made up of grace, and kindness, and gratitude. Maybe it was time to see if they were right. And, if I couldn’t figure it out right away, I could always blame the dressing room mirror . . .

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