Last July, my sons were jolted into mild uproar by the rumor that I had packed — simply packed, mind you — a swimsuit for our vacation at the beach. Since baby number three, me in a bathing suit’s been much like the ivory-billed woodpecker: someone’s always claiming to have seen it, but the reports remain unconfirmed and uncorroborated. Or they unravel as mere exaggerated speculation. Did my cheerful mom-worthy tunic in fact hide a demure black full-coverage tank suit, with strategic waist-level shirring? That’s just a hypothesis, boys.
But out there on the internet, a tireless algorithm nurtures a parallel vision of me and my swimsuit mojo. It wants me to know I belong in a different league. A braver, prouder, more ambitious league. And it’s finally sent me a sign.
Inspired? You bet I am. I’d hate to let Big Data down.