My husband and I are going to the Bahamas for a week. I’m so looking forward to the warm tropical weather and just sitting on a beach that I can’t stand it.

Getting there will be tricky as we have to leave in the wee hours of the morning, but we will arrive in time for lunch in the tropics.

But before we go, there are things that must be done.

I have to arrange the cat sitter, talk to the yard man, pay all the bills that will come due while we are gone, arrange travel to and from the airport, get extra cat food and litter, get all the phone numbers together and print out all the travel info and gather our necessary travel documents and passports.

My husband has to pack.

I have to pack as well, but while I painstakingly lay out my clothes and match up cute little “outfits” complete with shoes and jewelry, he throws a few things in his bag and he’s done.

On our last trip to the island, after I started packing on a Tuesday for a Friday departure, he got up Friday morning and tossed some shorts, shirts, and underwear in his bag with a pair of sandals and his shaving kit. He was done.

To get to the island we are going to last time, we had to arrive in Nassau and then take a verrrrry small plane over to our island. As they were unloading the bags, I saw mine on the plane. It was black, but it had a purple ribbon on it so I could easily pick it out.

And I saw it from the cab stand.

As a matter of fact, as they began to close the baggage doors on the plane, I still saw my bag.

It was still sitting on the plane.

“Wait,” I cried out. “My bag…..it’s still on the plane. Stop! Wait!”

Well, even I can’t be heard over the roar of a propeller and a plane engine. I watched as the plane with my bag in it taxied down the runway and pulled up its wheels and took to the air.

That was our first trip to the island, so I had no way of knowing that the plane was going to another airport on the other end and that it would ultimately be back that evening to take departing visitors back to Nassau.

I just imagined myself wearing the clothes that I had on all week.

Of course, my husband’s hastily packed bag was on the luggage cart headed to the cabs.

To this day he said they left mine on the plane because it was too heavy for anyone to carry off.

He thinks I over-pack.

Well this time I’m going to be smart. I’m going to put an extra outfit in my carry-on along with toiletries and such.

And I will NOT overpack. It’s an island, and I only need shorts and a sundress or two along with a couple of bathing suits.

Bathing suits……whooboy.

Trying on bathing suits is, to most women, right up there with a root canal and getting a colonoscopy. I’m willing to bet that even Heather Locklear hates it and she’s beautiful with a flawless body.

Of course this time of the year there are no bathing suits in the stores, so I have to rely on my own collection.

Timidly, I opened the bathing suit drawer of my dresser and was met with an array of suits….one-piece, tanks, tankinis... and the dreaded bikinis.

May I just say that the woman…and it HAD to be a woman…who invented the tankini should be nominated for sainthood? She knew her stuff and realized that women of a certain age are terrified of showing their tummies. Yet, when we tan, we like those tan lines to show off a brown stomach.

Somehow, a tan line that has our entire torso pasty white is not all that attractive. With a tankini, we can pull up the part covering our tummies once we are flat on the sand or pool chair and can lie there not breathing, so we look like we have a perfectly toned tummy.

Theoretically at least. Still….it’s comforting and gives us (me) confidence.

Gingerly, I pulled out a pile of suits and began to divide them…..once I had made my choices, I then began the task of trying them on.

I’ve been dieting and working out to get ready for this trip. I’ve even been walking two to three miles a day with my neighbor.

Still…..it’s winter in the south and between the recent holidays and Valentine candy, a bathing suit is a daunting thing.

I started with the black one-piece. I mean, why not tip-toe into the treacherous waters instead of belly-flopping in. (No pun intended.)

I put it on and turned to the mirror.

It didn’t look bad. I turned on more lights. It still looked okay. I went to the bathroom mirror just to be sure. I turned and moved and it still looked ok. Hmmmm….silently singing praises to my neighbor for making me walk so much, I pulled on another one-piece. It looked okay too.

Was I imagining this? Could it be that I wouldn’t frighten small island children when I appeared on the beach?

Then came the tankinis. They didn’t look bad either. There was no flab poking out anywhere. I was ecstatic. I squealed in delight. I pirouetted around my bathroom. I preened. I posed.

I uttered a little prayer of gratitude to God and the universe.

Then I saw the bikinis.

I looked at them and held them up. I fondled them and thought about trying them on. And then, I carefully folded them up and put them back into the drawer.

The ones I tried on had put me in a buoyant mood. Who needs a bikini anyway? I think I’ll just say that in the south, we don’t wear bikinis till after Memorial Day.

I mean, why argue with success.

I’m just saying…..