Dear Auntie,

My teen-aged daughter asked me to take her shopping for a new swimsuit. Her mother is away for a couple of months helping her sister recuperate after a serious accident, and I don’t want to bother her about it, but my female co-workers have me scared witless sharing tales of florescent lights and cruel mirrors that can make an already difficult reality lead to an emotional melt-down. I’ve been holding down the fort in my wife’s absence, but this is beyond me.

Out of My League

My Dear Neighbor:

Auntie Mac applauds you for wanting to take an active role in your daughter’s summer sartorial excursions, but she hopes she will be forgiven if the merest wisp of a smile, and perhaps a soft guffaw, passed her lips as she read of your perceived dilemma. Since you have intimated that you are not wise to some of the ways of what may be called “our camp,” you can be forgiven for taking your female colleagues’ tales of dressing-room degradation and subsequent emotional scarring at face value. Auntie Mac advises you to pause, let your breathing return to normal, and entertain for a moment that these women are taking no small amount of enjoyment in seeing you implode at the thought of having to offer just the right amount of encouragement and then console the poor thing after she has articulated in detail to you her post-dressing room existential crisis. In other words, dear, they’re having you on.

Your daughter has not asked you to take her shopping so much as she has asked you to be her chauffer. The fact that she has requested this of you indicates not a fragile ego about to be shattered but a well-adjusted young woman who needs to get to the mall. She certainly does not expect you to constantly be by her side agreeing that this year’s high-waisted bottoms seem frumpy, or that hot pink is a bit déclassé. As a matter of fact, a friendly wave and an “I’ll be over in the fly-fishing department” might be just the level of interaction she’s hoping for, as opposed to a glum posting on a nearby tufted bench. It is almost certain that you will be called upon to transport one or two friends with her as well, and if not, you might suggest she bring one along. Should this occur, Auntie Mac assures you that you would much rather be examining plastic worms and eight ounce sinkers than be within earshot of the shrieking and howling erupting from the swimsuit area.

There are, of course, ground rules to set. Unless you have one of the most comfortable and egalitarian father-daughter relationships on the planet, your daughter is not going to model her choices in front of you. And so, you must let her know that you trust her to choose a suit that is both pleasing to her, fits comfortably enough to swim and lounge about in, and appropriate for her age (which, brace yourself, allows in pretty much everything except see-through bras and thongs). If she chooses to show you her final selection, and you see that she feels confident and happy with it, then congratulate her on a great choice and get out your credit card. And put the worms back—this day was not about you.

Your Auntie Mac