Well, in my case, very hard. I don’t have a bikini body; I have a pyjama body, and it hasn’t seen the light of day since August.
I stopped buying magazines that tell me how to become a beach babe when I realised that, no matter how many kiwis I eat or stairs I run up, my bum still wobbles when I sneeze, let alone if I start darting about in my underwear.
And now, just to make matters more humiliating, Beyoncé has started modelling high street bikinis. You know, Beyoncé; probably the most beautiful woman in the world. Would I like to look like her in a bikini? Of course I would, but I’d also like to fly and to start burping fifties – it just ain’t gonna happen. At least give me a realistic goal.
I would love it if for once an item of clothing could be modelled by somebody ordinary; I mean really ordinary. She’d have speckled legs that have been shaved with a man’s razor because she couldn’t be arsed to go downstairs and get her own, she’d have a slightly wobbly middle, and a chest that, just for laughs, fills one bra cup more than the other. She might not encourage much aspirational purchasing, but she’d make me feel a lot better.
But in the absence of such things and with a desperate need to go on holiday, we must find alternative solutions. Exercise is the obvious one, as always. I had a couple of weeks off zumba in February when I was recovering from the norovirus (a less enjoyable method of weight loss) and I haven’t been back since, so it’s probably time to start jumping about again. A wet suit is another option – the closest thing to a onesie in beachwear.
But the best suggestion I have is to just stop caring – buy that bikini and hit the beach. If I can manage not to give a damn what I look like then I shouldn’t think anybody else will either.
And if anybody does give me a funny look, I’ll just assume they’ve mistaken me for Beyoncé. It’s the only possible explanation.