Andrea Rooney, here, on removable bathing suit bra pads. WHO CAME UP WITH THESE? My panties are definitely in a twist over these gems, but that's nothing compared to the knotted bunches these little babies get themselves into in the washing machine, the dryer, the ocean waves, when you lie on your stomach on a beach towel and decide to, heaven forbid, move...I think they hang out in the dresser drawer practicing contortions because every time I take out a suit with these removable pads, instead of a sleek bathing suit top, I have something that looks more like a nest for two curled-up baby rodents.

Many of the manufacturers of these suits have planned for this. They give you a dime-sized opening under your armpit. Am I supposed to send in a dime to unfurl the pads? I sure can't get my adult-sized fingers in to where I can grab these pads and work them smooth. The ones without the slit are plain design ridiculous. The only plus they have is I don't waste anytime attempting to move the pads through the tiny slit. I jump right in attempting to wrestle those triangular devils flat through the white nylon liner that functions similarly to Madonna's security guards, keeping me at bay every time I get close.

Having fixed the pads in my bathing suit in the privacy of the bedroom before I put it on, I arrive at the beach this summer, sun beaming, waves are great for the first time all week. With only two days left of our week at the beach, I high-tail it into the water. Time to body surf. I catch a wave, and I'm sailing in, my wave sliding over the water below, the water foaming and salty-fresh around me, the wave carrying me in to shore. Life is good in my two piece...until I get to the shallows, the wave melts away, and I give a quick finger check to my top before I stand up. With my top scooping water the whole way in, both pads have turned themselves into rats' nests, again. And handy maintenance slit or not, smoothing them out while me suit is on and there are people all around me is mission impossible. But what else can I do. So I basically lie in the water, my hands on my breasts feeling myself for all anyone can gauge, and work for what seems like several minutes untangling my pads. I remember this suit actually does have that dime-sized slit, and I give a passing thought to just ripping these spongy little boogers out. If I were at some distant locale, no one I knew for hundreds of miles, I would, but my family is here, including my teenage son and his two friends and my 87-year-old mother, and the water is cold, so strolling around with two slippery pieces of nylon between my girls and the rest of the world is not a comfortable option.

I am determined to enjoy these waves, so I go back to my towel, get my white cotton gauze sarong, triple it over, and tie it around my chest. I'm sure I look exactly like a woman binding herself in an attempt to pass like a man, and maybe right now, that's what I'm doing. The men riding waves aren't struggling. Need I report? This doesn't work. My binding keeps sliding down, and then the water scoops at those pads, and I'm back where I started.

My dear friend who is staying with us at the beach is still back at the house. Thank goodness for cell phones. She goes into my drawer and brings me the top of my Lands End tankini. I put the tankini top on over the bikini top I already have on, and I'm ready to go. Va va voom. Four pads are better than none. I ride waves to my heart's content.

Lands End, and Jantzen, and probably all the more sports-oriented manufacturers, know that the pads, if they're included, need to be sewed in, heavy thread, close stitches, all sides. These pads aren't going anywhere, and they shouldn't. Yet, I like a little high style now and again...and that's when I realize who's behind the two biggest culprits in my swim suit wardrobe. Could this be a guy thing? The head honcho doesn't get it? Ralph Lauren, are you listening? Let me introduce you to Anne Cole. Have some coffee. Talk to her. This dame knows what a woman needs in a bathing suit.