Apparently Victoria’s Secret sells a Brazilian bikini. How I know this is part of a long story, ending with me accepting the fact that it will take far more than an intimate wax job to get me in one.

Honestly, I do not know why I bothered again. Every spring, inspired by the blooming flowers and budding trees to shed my own winter layers and let the sun shine warmly on my (SPF 45-covered) skin, I pour through the pages of the Victoria’s Secret swimsuit catalog in awe of the possibilities for my very own “beach-sexy” summer.

Every season brings new technology, and even after two semesters of college physics, I can never figure out how these things are supposed to work. Moderate coverage or a mid-rise scoop? Underwire push-up gel packs or wireless removable padding?

Bikini? Mono-kini? Martini?

But by the time I am finished looking, I have completely bought into the promise that I will look just like those ladies standing windblown on the beach. All I need is a sultry smile, a setting sun and a credit card number.

What I fail to remember year after year, however, is that this body has been walking the earth (usually at a noncardio pace) for many years longer than most of Victoria’s angels have been alive and has given birth to four (9-pound) angels of its own.

And yet every year I place an order. And five business days later, the FedEx man is at the door with my miracle and the prophetic words, “Good luck, ma’am!”

Alone in the house for my annual ritual of self-torture, I sneak upstairs to my room, locking the door behind me. I slip into the closet to change and strut out to the mirror fully expecting to find a beach-sexy Julie staring back.

But the Julie in the mirror never looks anything like the model in the catalog. I suck in my breath even harder, arching my back, striking pose after pose just like the model, except, in spite of my attempt at a sultry smile, my assets look nothing like hers.

This year though, rather than cursing the gods of cellulite and stretch marks and comforting myself with a tube of cookie dough like I normally do, I took a closer look at the picture.

Those chicks are not nature-made. And they look hungry, crawling around on the beach, desperately hoping someone will let them off the hook and just bring them a big, fat cheeseburger and an ice cold Bud. In fact, I doubt any of them has ever had the joy of leisurely washing down a bowl of guacamole with a margarita poolside, the poor dears.

Victoria has a secret all right (airbrushing and tapeworms, don’t tell her I told you), one she can keep as long as she wants. I’ll take a carefree summer by the pool over a summer by Victoria anytime.