Many women – me! Hi! – would rank shopping for a new swimsuit somewhere up there with having a smear test and filing a tax return on the scale of Fun Times.
The changing room curtain is always four inches narrower than the doorframe. And oh, the shock of your almost-naked body displayed under supermarket lighting. Don’t even get me started on those sticky plastic gusset shields, eminently sensible yet somehow so depressingly undignified. Put simply, we can’t all be Martha Stewart – relaxed in a swimsuit, on the cover of say, Sports Illustrated.
