The Swimsuit Conundrum

Italian women wear bikinis.
Doesn't matter if they're over 80, as wrinkly as prunes, as roly-poly as sausages, or as saggy as old sacks.
If you are an Italian woman, YOU MUST WEAR A BIKINI.
End of story.
How else can your stomach go the color of chocolate?
I mean, really.
This, unfortunately, poses a problem for me.
Not that I don't want to go the color of Nutella.
I do.
And do.
With the best of them.
Anyone who knows me -- even slightly -- knows this.
Colleagues in Washington used to be horrified at my tan in the summer. My doctor would scold me.
I tried to explain there's an entire country of people obsessed with the sun like me. Even more than me.
Back to the swimsuit.
Thing is, I know I look better in a one-piece bathing suit.
No, it's more than that: I don't look good in a bikini.
Are you kidding?
I mean, c'mon. I've had two children. They're in their 20s. I'm over 50, soon to be over 55 (oh god).
And there's plenty of me, although my one saving grace is that I am quite tall.
"Bona," as they say in Italian.
I can just about get by in a one-piece.
And looking decent in a bathing suit -- as sexy as I can muster with what Gigi and Luciana gave me -- is important to me.
If you're an Italian woman, YOU MUST MAKE THE MOST OF WHAT YOU'VE GOT.
That's the rule.
I am not Luciana's daughter for nothing. (You shoulda seen her in a swimsuit.)
Oprah magazine says any woman over about 25 looks better in a one-piece. Not to mention any mothers. We won't even go there.
Which, of course, is right.
They're more flattering.
I defy anyone to disagree.
Not that anybody reads Oprah here.
Or gives a shit.
I'm starting to stick out though.
I am the only woman in a fucking one-piece bathing suit anywhere in sight.
What am I, a nun? An aging nun, at that?
This is now getting to me.
My stomach, though, is the color of Carrara marble (hasn't seen the sun in years) and my legs, chest and arms more akin to mahogany furniture.
Cannot imagine reconciling those two. Or wanting to.
I ran into a lovely, elderly English woman I know here yesterday. Not sure her age, but right around 80, I know.
She was off to buy a swimsuit.
A bikini, of course. What else? She's lived here forever.
I was actually in my bathing suit when I saw her, just back from a swim in the lake.
A decent, turqoise-and-red, halter-neck one-piece I bought in the States.
She commented that she liked my suit. Asked where I got it.
I asked her if she will ever, uh, even consider a one-piece. (Like maybe when she turns 90?)
No, she replied. I like my stomach to go brown. Even though I wish they had more choice beyond just the string bikinis. (Excuse me? Did you just say you're about to go buy a string bikini?)
And then, with no prompting, out of the blue, she laughed, and said: "You're so American."
What?
No, I am not so American.
I am Italian. You are English.
I am just wearing the wrong fucking bathing suit.