Call me a summer grinch, but I despise communal pools. I fail to adapt, as other humans seem capable of, to the bizarre parallel universe in which it’s socially acceptable to plod around in what are essentially your underpants just because you’re occupying the perimeter of a cube of chlorinated water.

In what other situation does one casually bend over in their knickers, mere feet from a stranger, to pick up a book? None. And assuming you’re fine with that, why does it become weird even to cross the threshold from the hotel pool area to the adjoining restaurant without covering up and donning shoes? This makes no sense.

But I digress. It is summer, and now that I am a mother, I must tolerate pools. Gone are the days when I would simply avoid them (except for very expensive, scrupulously

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