Going to the dentist. Taking an organic chemistry final. Trying to find a parking spot at the… Going to the dentist. Taking an organic chemistry final. Trying to find a parking spot at the mall during the Christmas season.

These are all tedious tasks that people dread getting involved in, and justifiably so.

However, there is one annual chore so vile, so self-deprecating and so incredibly frustrating that the very thought of it sends a shiver down the spine of every warm-blooded gal in America who has been exposed to the weekly covers of celebrity gossip magazines chock full of smokin’ hot chicks:

It’s bathing suit shopping.

Cue the “doomed for all eternity” soundtrack.

Searching for the summer’s wardrobe staple is never a pleasant or quick experience. In the suitable words of Jerry Maguire, “It’s an up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege that I will never fully tell you about, OK?”

Being forced to stare directly at the reflection of winter’s lingering lack of tan and seasonal five bonus pounds in a dressing room where the lighting is considerably less than flattering is an event of epic proportions, which makes purchasing an adequate suit nearly impossible. It is an undertaking for which a considerable amount of time and effort must be set aside — for the ladies, at least — as I’ve recently found out.

During my kick-ass spring break at the homestead, one of my lifelong male friends called and asked me to join him and a few of his friends on a jaunt to the mall. They needed my female expertise as they tried on board shorts for their spring break venture to Jamaica.

I was happy to lend my services and expected a full afternoon of scouring the mall for the most flattering male swimwear.

Apparently a “full afternoon” equates to three and a half minutes in boy time.

My friend asked me to suggest a store that sold board shorts. I recommended one, and the guys rushed in and went directly to the swimwear section. No browsing. No being derailed by “sale” signs. He just picked up the first pair he saw and immediately checked the size.

“Hmmm,” he said, “this isn’t the size I usually wear. I might have to try these on.”

I made a facial expression resembling a face I’d make if someone were to suggest that Ashlee Simpson was talented. “Might?” I was shocked. “Don’t you always try stuff on?”

I followed my pal to the changing room and awaited his emergence. He modeled his suit for me and I gave my seal of approval.

“Looks pretty good. Do you want to try the green one too?” I asked.

“Nope. This is good. Let’s go,” he told me.

Just like that. Done and done.

Where was the endless agony? Why was there no top-to-bottom search to see if there might be a slightly more appealing suit in some other far-off corner of the mall? And if an adequate suit could have been found, why was it not put on hold so as to buy time to explore the Internet for better suits that may have otherwise been unavailable?

Amazed and baffled, I was unable to process what had just occurred. The simplicity of it all struck me as odd, when in reality, it was such a sensible equation: See suit; like suit enough; suit fits; buy suit.

It was like reducing Einstein’s theory of relativity to the level of a communications major’s requisite basic math course.

I was impressed — even a little envious — of the male shopping strategy. And while I find it admirable and much more efficient, I’d be lying if I said that I, or any other gal I know, would be willing to adopt such a policy.

For us, shopping is a quest for perfection. Settling for the first item that happens to fit is like drinking Banker’s Club when you could be having Grey Goose. There’s a thrill in the quest to find the ideal and most flattering garment possible, especially if it happens to be on sale. This formidable task requires research, testing and endurance — particularly when it’s for a bathing suit.

Colleen Bayus would like to note that J. Crew’s swim line this year stinks and she is disappointed. E-mail her at [email protected].