It happens almost every year. It doesn't seem like a big deal. We, tell ourselves, it's just an article of clothing. In the grand scheme of the universe, it doesn't matter. However, when we think about our bodies openly exposed for all the world to preview, it matters to each of us. It's amazing what happens when we try on a swimsuit. We can be male or female, and the moment we step into a dressing room we are exposed to ourselves.

Our bodies tell immense stories about each of us. Scars from a childhood bike ride remind us of the dangers of making a leap. The signs of the week with chicken pox remind us we are vulnerable. The speckles of too much sun dotting our landscape tell a cautionary tale. The years of skipping vegetables say we need to be kind to ourselves. The ink tattooed in tiny areas whispers our boldness. Our rolling spine shows years spent sitting slumped over desks and devices. The rolls of buttery goodness make us remember being teased by a bully. The nooks, crannies, ins, outs, ups, downs are available for all to review. They become our front page headline. Our bodies, become voyeuristic displays of comparison. Is it any wonder that we don't want to share our story with the world?

That's the thing about a swimsuit. It can make us vulnerable, real and exposed by providing a visual context of who we might be. However, a swimsuit, just like a cover of a book, will only give you a sample of the story inside. The real story appears on the inside pages.

Until tomorrow friends.

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