Lean, lovely `Vanessa' takes a dive into fantasy
by Beth Teitell

Thursday, May 24, 2001

Miss Kissel, my third-grade teacher, was right. When you cheat, you're only hurting yourself.

And yet, who can help herself, especially when something important is at stake?

I was on the Lands' End Web site the other day, building ``My Virtual Model,'' a line drawing of a woman that would help me choose a bathing suit to flatter my figure, and was asked for various classified information: weight, height, whether I had a waist.

I looked to my left and my right. I was alone in my apartment. Who would be the wiser? Name: Vanessa (Why not?) Height: 5 feet 10 inches. Weight: 119 pounds.

I know, I know. When ``Vanessa's'' Bali-hai tankini arrives, it's not going to look so hot on Beth. But a girl can dream, can't she?

``Dreaming is one thing,'' a friend said when I told her what I'd done, ``appearing in that thing is going to be another.''

That's what I hate about bathing suits. Tiny. Full coverage. In the end, you're wearing way too little out in public. Even the new miracle suits - the girdles in disguise - have problems. Your stomach looks flatter, but the fat has to go somewhere, and I'm not sure bulges at the suit's borders are preferable to bumps concealed by nylon.

If only you could redirect the fat to where it's needed. Some could travel to your bust, and the rest to your face, where it would be used to plump your lips and fill out wrinkles.

(Despite all the P.C. talk about the beauty of the ``athletic'' figure, the only people who can get away with being round are babies, and they pull off all kinds of things that adults can't: toothlessness, babbling, bad table manners.)

With summer looming, there's a lot of focus on the beach, but there's something out there more threatening than sand, and I'm not talking about West Nile virus. The pool party. It's a party, so you have to get dolled up. But from the moment you arrive, pressure mounts to ``take a dip.''

Listen, if I want to socialize with wet hair, running mascara and my thighs on display, the next time I go to a dinner party I'll ask the hostess if I can take a bath, then dine in my underwear.

Which is where the coverup comes in, I guess. But beware. It's tempting to throw a sarong or a pair of coordinating shorts over your suit, but like breath mints and air freshener, the coverup often draws attention to the very thing it seeks to conceal.

Hmmm, you think when you see a woman walking the beach with a terry wrap, wonder what's going on under there?

So what should you do? Unless we're lucky enough to have a rainy summer, you're going to have to put on a bathing suit at some point.

Or do you? We live in a virtual age. I for one am going to live on the Lands' End Web site, where I'm a 119-pound blonde with no stretch marks and a degree in art history from Harvard. Since it's summer, I'll go to a barbecue and down a couple of hot dogs hot off the grill, then eat some vodka-soaked watermelon. Later I'll hop into my BMW convertible, drive back to my 10-bedroom Chatham estate and go for a swim.

Swimming. Uh, oh. That's what got me into trouble in the first place.