I’d just tried on the last of the bathing suits, a striped tankini that made me look like a pregnant convict, when suddenly I heard someone moaning in dismay.

I looked over and saw a plump thirtysomething woman struggling into a pair of spandex bike shorts and matching halter top. At last. Someone with actual hips and thighs and tummy. One of the sixty percenters!

She surveyed herself in the mirror and sighed, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of tugging on all that spandex.

“My God,” she sighed. “I look like the Pillsbury Doughboy with cleavage.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I look like the doughboy with cleavage, retaining water.”

“Oh, yeah?” she countered. “I look like the doughboy with cleavage, retaining water on a bad hair day.”

She ran her fingers through her blunt-cut hair and grimaced.

“Would you believe this is a size large?” she said, tugging at the shorts. “Who is this large on? Barbie?”

“Well, I’ve had it.” I wriggled out of the tankini and started to get dressed. “I’m outta here.”

I’d long since given up my insane water aerobics idea. No. I’d take up something far less humiliating. Like walking. And the first place I intended to walk to was Ben & Jerry’s for a restorative dose of Chunky Monkey.

“I’m going to drown my sorrows in ice cream.”

“Great idea,” said my fellow sufferer. “Mind if I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

And so, ten minutes later, we were sitting across from each other at Ben & Jerry’s slurping Chunky Monkey ice cream cones.

“I’m Pam, by the way,” my companion said, licking some ice cream from where it had dribbled onto her wrist. “Pam Kenton.”

It was nice being with someone who ate with gusto. My best friend Kandi has the appetite of a gnat and usually shoots me disapproving looks when I order anything more fattening than a celery stick. I know it’s only because she cares about me and wants me to be one of the skinny forty percenters, but still, it can get pretty annoying.

“Actually,” Pam said, “my last name isn’t really Kenton. It’s Koskovolis. Kenton is my stage name. I’m an actress. Of course, you know what that means in this town.”

“Waitress?”

“You got it,” she nodded. “And you?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened, impressed. People are always impressed when I tell them I’m a writer. “What do you write?”

“Oh, industrial brochures. Resumes. Stuff like that.”

Here’s where they usually stop being impressed. Most folks find resumes and industrial brochures a bit of a yawn.

But Pam sat up, interested.

“You write resumes? I sure could use some help with mine. I’m getting tired of waitressing. I want a job where I get to sit down for a while.”

“I’d be happy to help you with your resume,” I offered.