While visiting a friend-of-my-boyfriend’s house recently, I was presented with a horrifying scenario. It was a warm, sunny day, and the friend in question had a swimming pool and hot tub. I had not come prepared to immerse myself in any body of water, so the wife of the friend immediately coaxed me into a bedroom and began pulling bikinis out of a drawer.

“This one will fit you!” she declared, waving at me with a tiger-print scrap of fabric.

I eyed the swimsuit in question and cringed. Sure, it might fit technically, but it was one of those Euro cut numbers designed to cover approximately 1/8 of the behind.

And I hadn’t even been mentally eased into swimsuit season yet with the obligatory torture trip to a department store dressing room to regard with sober despair the results of a winter spent writing and consuming pastry products.

Before giving me a chance to argue for a bit more modesty, it was decided by the wife that I would indeed put on the tiger-print micro-bikini and present myself to a small crowd of people already waiting by the pool. She hurried me into a bathroom to change, and a few minutes later, I was staring at myself in the mirror, horrified to find that the tiny sides of the bikini bottoms virtually disappeared beneath a newfound set of love handles.

Never one to be called a bad sport though, I pulled my summer dress on again over the offending bikini and headed for the pool, praying I’d have a good excuse not to do the big reveal. The water would be icy, I was sure, and I would be able to lounge poolside with a glass of wine without ever having to show any serious skin.

And no, I didn’t have to get in the pool, but I did take a dip in the hot tub later (shrugging off my dress only when no one was looking, then doing a mad dash into the water), where I sat regarding my newly expanded waist and promising myself I’d run six miles a day for the rest of the spring and summer.

I haven’t quite gotten around to that running-six-miles-a-day resolution. Too many writing deadlines at the moment. In the meantime though, I’d like to suggest to pool owners everywhere, if you’re going to keep extra swimsuits on hand for guests, please, please get the full coverage kind. No bikinis bought while visiting the topless (and apparently virtually bottomless) beaches of the Greek Isles.

I’m also posting this story as an official warning to those of you, like me, who’ve failed to notice swimsuit season creeping up on us. It’s almost here. My resolution is to lay off the donuts and, okay, probably not run six miles a day. But I’m going to do something physical most days of the week. Yeah. That sounds good.

How about you? Do you dread the first big reveal of the season? Do you have a strategy for getting into summer-wear shape? And have you ever been forced to wear someone else’s tiger-print micro-bikini, or is that just something that happens to me?