Just say “Cheese.” Or is it “Cheetah?”

Just say “Cheese.” Or is it “Cheetah?”

“What do you think of this?” I asked my husband showing him a cell phone picture of me wearing a bikini standing in front of the bathroom mirror. “What if I post it on the Internet… for publicity?”

He looked at the photo, “Well, I guess it works for a humor columnist.”

Did you see the photographs Demi Moore posted on the Internet of herself wearing nothing but sunglasses and a snakeskin bikini standing in front of her bathroom mirror? Then came those Lisa Rinna, of “Dancing with the Stars” and puffy lips fame,  tweeted of herself similarly situated in support of her idol and fellow 47-year-old wife and mother, Demi Moore. 

 I am 47. I have a bathroom, a cell phone camera and a Twitter account. I don’t have a spouse 15 years my junior, but who couldn’t use a little pub? So yesterday I made up my mind to get my over-40 abs out there on the World Wide Web.

I’m sure Erma would have done the same. Though when Erma Bombeck was 47, the Internet didn’t exist. She probably rolled reprinted pictures of her tan, buff bod around one of her latest columns and had her son stuff them in folks’ mail boxes. 

With my cougarskin string bikini still at the dry cleaners, this called for some improvisation. A one-piece hung over the shower rod from the last time I swam at the Aquatics Center – three months ago. Since royal blue flatters everything from aging women to aging major appliances, all I needed was some scissors and dental floss.

Stepping away from the mirror, I lined up my shot. Demi has admitted to plastic surgery. I would never confess to such or at least never reveal any doctor’s name. My pocketbook couldn’t take defending a defamation lawsuit right now. 

Funny what two adults, three children and a visiting set of grandparents can do to a bathroom. Both Demi and Lisa’s bathrooms look like five-star hotels. Mine looks…well. Did I mention that our entire family uses the same toilet bowl and sink?

I didn’t notice toothpaste splatters on Demi or Lisa’s mirrors. No black dog hair graced the white subway tile floor. Fluffy white robes hung in the corner by Demi’s shower. So I was sure that my fuchsia terry one covered in polka-dots, stains and gaping burnt holes made by an errant lit match graced my shot.

The oversized sunglasses came in handy because when I started posing, even my eyes rolled so far back into my head I looked like my 17 year old when asked any question containing the words “girl”, “SAT” or “Should I take a picture of myself in the bathroom mirror a wearing a bikini?” The latter phrase was accompanied by, “That’s gross, Mom.”

Looking at my reflection with right hip tilted up one way, stomach skin swinging the other, I thought maybe he’s right. This was gross. The bathroom surely was. What would a 47-year-old Erma have done?  Would she rely on scantily clad pictures or just sit down at her typewriter?

No doubt, Erma would write.

So I did just that — still wearing my bathing suit. Now I wonder what’s the easiest way to hold out the camera to get the best picture?