Page 32 of The Love Haters

“But you might be the only one in a standoff with a bathing suit.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Don’t be one of those women who insists on thinking she’s ugly,” she said.

“I don’t think I’m ugly,” I stated. Then, much quieter and possibly hoping not even to be heard, I followed that with: “But other people might?”

Beanie was incredulous. “What?!”

I wasn’t passing her feminist muster.

“I’m sorry!” I said, seeing her point. “I’d so much rather just march confidently around town, not giving a shit what anybody thinks—and Ido! Mostly! When I’m in jeans! But abathing suit… It’s like being a knight with no armor. It’s like being a quarterback with no helmet. It’s like being a hermit crab with no shell!” Then I spotted a way to change the subject. “You saw that article, right? How hermit crabs are starting toprefertrash to real shells? They’re using bottle caps and PVC debris. And apparently all that plastic isn’t healthy for them!”

“Don’t change the subject. That adorable swimsuit isn’t trash. And you’re not a hermit crab, by the way.”

“It’s just sovulnerable,” I said.

But wasvulnerableeven a vulnerable enough word?

“I didn’t realize you were so hard on yourself,” Beanie said, like she was revising her whole opinion of me.

“I’m not! Usually. Ninety-nine percent of the time I’m completely fine and comfortable and even happy being me.As long as I can keep my clothes on.”

That was reasonable, right?

But Beanie was sizing me up now. “Doesn’t the level of what you’re feeling right now feel kind of…intense?”

I wasn’t sure.Did it?

“Maybe it’s more than justissues.” Beanie was nodding now.

Oh, god, she had her diagnosing face on.

Next, she looked almost excited as she said, “Maybe it’s a phobia.”

“Look,” I said, “normally I’m fine. I don’t go anywhere near swimsuits, and I’m fine.”

“A life spent avoiding bathing suits? This really does sound like a phobia, right?”

That sounded a little strong. “It’s not aphobia,” I said. “It’s a normal female reaction to having an ordinary, imperfect body in a world overrun by Photoshop and AI.”

“Normal foryou, maybe.”

But I defended myself. “The point is,” I said, “I’m here for work. I’m here to film a kick-ass promo and save my job. I’m not here for a swimsuit competition! Or to sign up for some kind ofSports Illustratedparade! Or to release my thighs out into the wild!”

But now Beanie was googling. “Question,” she said. “Do youknowthat it’s crazy to be afraid of a swimsuit?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well,” Beanie said, “at least it’s not psychosis.”

“Beanie!” I pleaded, glancing at the time. “This is serious.”

“I am serious. What you’re describing really sounds like a phobia.” She got quiet for a second. “And I’m just double-checking, but I’m pretty sure the cure for phobias is… yeah. The cure for a phobia is to do the thing you’re afraid of.”

“Todoit?”

“Yeah. The fact that you’re afraid to put on the swimsuit means you have to put on the swimsuit.”

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