I haven’t purchased a bathing suit in 17 years. Buying one ranks right up there with the joy of a root canal, a mammogram and cleaning Thanksgiving turkey grit off the bottom of your oven.

Nothing is as much fun as squeezing a bucket of cellulite into 3 square inches of spandex.

Perhaps I should contact Monsanto or whoever invented that dreadful stuff because I’ve got news for them. My bod and I really put the span into spaaaaandex. Oh, stretch, baby, stretch. Stretch marks, stretch pants, the home stretch, I can really test that product to its maximum capacity.

Unfortunately, what happens in spandex, doesn’t always stay in spandex.

Sadly, my current polka dot “swimwear” is showing signs of rigor mortis and my number is up. We have a dot disintegration problem at Camino de Catastrophe. By the time I drag that sucker over my body, the dots will be the size of Peru, if they last that long.

Why isn’t there a way to get into a swimming pool without feeling like a beached whale disguised as Strawberry Shortcake? I’m a grandmother, known to turn out a delightful lemon soufflé, well-versed on Henri Matisse and clean. Tell me why I have to look like Strawberry Shortcake to go swimming. I’d rather schmooze with my local IRS agent who eats fava beans with a nice Chianti.

So I began to search for new dots and found myself at Beach Blvd. on Thousand Oaks Boulevard near Petco. It’s a store that specializes in—of all crazy things—bathing suits. They have bathing suits at Petco but you have to be able to scratch your ears with your toes or wear a flea collar to qualify.

Once I mustered enough courage to walk in Beach Blvd., I was astounded by gazillions of miniscule bathing suits, with or without dots, with or without substance, and I asked the inevitable question:

“Do you have anything in my size?”

Fortunately, no one burst into laughter or suggested that I visit the local sail manufacturer who might be able to fashion one out of a spinnaker. No, thankfully, these girls have learned the art of diplomacy.

“Sure . . . we have these darling ones over here! Look!”

Darling. Yes, they actually were darling. The problem is what happens to them once I put one on. Then “darling” goes right out the proverbial window and “scary as heck” comes storming in.

“Here, try this one. And this one. And oh, look at this, it is so flattering for heavy-busted women.”

Okay, the cat was out of the bag, the toothpaste was out of the tube. Tillie and Annie have popped out of their moorings. If God invented swimming, why did He invent menopausal women with boobs, never big enough when you’re 25 and once your hormones come in a bottle, they become lost at sea, adrifting and adropping?

Checking out one bizarre item, I inquire, “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s the Brazilian cut.”

Actually, not sure if Brazil existed when I bought my vintage polka dot number. Why would anyone wear a thing like that? Don’t they have more substantial goals in Brazil? And, honey, I need something with coverage.

“Are any of you girls familiar with Christo?” I ask. “He was the artist who surrounded a few islands off the coast of Florida with 6.5 million square feet of pink woven polypropylene fabric. That’s coverage. Got anything like that?”

“Do you want polka dots with your polypropylene?” she asked.

I laughed. And found something better than Christo could have ever imagined. But if you see polka dots floating off the coast of Catalina this year, it just might be . . . moi .

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com or visit her blog at http://open.salon.com/blog/ elizabethkirby.